


Let Her Go

by AndreaChristoph



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Ain't no slow burn here, Edith Piaf - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Flynn Is An Actual Mess, Flynn Pines Sadly, Flynn activates Dad Mode(TM), Flynn pulls a Noah, Just pure unadulterated falling in love, Maximum Lucy, Paris - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Dancing, The Blitz, Time Shenanigans, Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, World War II, accidentally married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2019-11-24 12:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18165242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaChristoph/pseuds/AndreaChristoph
Summary: Lucy returns from a mission gone wrong to find that her timeline has drastically changed.  For one, she’s suddenly in a relationship again.  Unfortunately for the besotted Croatian calling himself her husband, she doesn’t remember any of it.Now what?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like giving my take on the good old Timeless fic trope "What if they accidentally ended up married?" The answer: light angst ensues (or heavy angst - this is Garcia Flynn, physical embodiment of a flaming garbage can, after all). Set somewhere in the no man's land between 2x07-2x08. I have fudged the timeline a bit in terms of how long they've been living in the bunker but SHHHHHH let's not speak of that.

“Lucy, it really could have gone worse.”

“Gone worse?” she snaps, fumbling with her seat restraints.  “I’m not entirely sure how that could have gone worse than it did.  We are not _lawyers_ , Wyatt, and it’s all well and good to use that cover story when trying to gain access to a prisoner so we can get information, but we are not _qualified_ for actually going to court!”

Wyatt is turning a brighter shade of red as each second passes, as he too fumbles with his seatbelt, so flustered he has more trouble fastening it than he should have considering how many missions he’s been on.  “What did you expect me to do? It would have been suspicious if his lawyer had suddenly said ‘no, actually, you’re on your own’-”

“I expected you to _think_ , Wyatt.  There’s any number of ways you could have gotten out of that trial.  But now, thanks to you, a murderer has gone free and an innocent man has died.”

“Oh yeah?  Name one excuse I could have given that wouldn’t have been suspicious.”

Lucy gives him a look.  “A relative is sick. My wife is in labor.  I’m not feeling well. There, you can have three.”

Wyatt is oddly quiet after that, and he seems to be focused on the floor, the control panels, pretty much anything other than Lucy as they wait for Rufus to join them.

“Dear god, it’s like an arctic wind blew through here,” Rufus says as he edges his way between their legs to reach his own seat.  “What are you two arguing about now?”

“Lucy thinks I shouldn’t have gone to trial,” Wyatt tells him, with a tone that says _can you believe this woman?_ But rather than chiming in with support, Rufus snorts softly and rotates his chair away from them. Wyatt’s face falls.  “You’re kidding. You too?”

Rufus doesn’t turn back around, flicking switches on the control panel in front of him instead.  “I wish I could say you made the right call this time, buddy, but I’m not so sure you did.”

Wyatt slumps back against his seat, defeated, and sighs as the Lifeboat powers up for the jump.  “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The jump is as rough as always, jostling them so much that they’re only minutes away from passing out, and yet somehow Wyatt knows in the back of his mind that Lucy is determinedly glaring at him anyway, and he opts to keep his own eyes shut.  The landing is rough, the ship clattering as it lands at an uneven angle, and all three of them take a second to catch their breath as it powers down before Lucy once more fumbles with her seatbelts, practically ripping them off. “I swear to god, the next mission we go on where we’re dealing with criminal cases, Flynn is going instead of you.”

“What?  Don’t be ridiculous-”

“Welcome home.”  Both Lucy and Wyatt turn toward Denise’s voice drifting up from the base of the stairs that she’s clearly just finished wheeling over.  Lucy gives Wyatt one final scowl, then pushes past him to descend the stairs. Denise catches on her mood immediately and puts a hand to her elbow just as she’s about to walk away.  “Hey, woah, hang on. Something went wrong, didn’t it?”

“That’s an understatement,” Lucy mutters.  “You’ll have to ask Johnny Cochrane over there just how things went.”

Denise sighs, a longsuffering look on her face, and turns to Wyatt as he immediately launches into a detailed report of what had taken place over the past 24 hours (at least from his perspective).  Lucy is about to rush away in a huff once more when Denise cuts Wyatt off briefly and turns to her. “Flynn is in bed, by the way. He’s doing better. His fever is going down.”

Lucy pauses and looks back at her curiously.  She had been understandably concerned, as they all were, when Flynn’s infection had given him a fever that took him off the roster, as he could barely stand up for a minute at a time (and somehow managed to make fainting look painful, his 6’4 frame crumpling over mid-briefing), but she didn’t think she was any more visibly concerned about him than the rest of them before they left.  Evidently, Denise disagreed.

Rather than rush to Flynn’s side as Denise seems to expect her to, Lucy heads for her’s and Jiya’s shared bunk - only to discover the two beds pushed together in the center, and both Rufus and Jiya’s clothes strewn everywhere.  She stops short and glances around the room, then rolls her eyes and sighs. Looks like this would be yet another timeline where she was forced to sleep on the couch.

She intercepts Connor as he heads down the hallway, thoroughly focused on the tablet in his hands and not on anything before him until he suddenly hears Lucy clear her throat a few short seconds before he’d have run directly into her.  He looks up, smiling as he sees her. “Ah, you’re back. How was the mission?”

Lucy gives him a tight-lipped smile in return.  “I’ll say the same thing I said to Denise - ask Wyatt.”

“That doesn’t bode well.  Best go touch base then.”

“Wait, Connor, before you go…”  She shifts on her feet awkwardly.  “I was sharing a room with Jiya when I left, but apparently that’s no longer the case in this present.  Do you know if I had a room in this timeline, and if so, which one it might be?”

“Of course, Lucy.  You’re in what used to be my room.  We swapped quite a while ago; it just made more sense, what with two beds in there.”  He smiles again. “I hear Garcia is doing better, by the way. At least there’s some good news out of today.”

Again she’s baffled at Connor drawing special attention to Flynn’s condition.  “That’s good...um, so, your room then?”

“Oh, yes, I moved into the single bunk instead.  I have to admit I prefer it, actually.” Connor walks with her back toward the kitchen as he speaks, their paths diverging at the hallway entrance.  Lucy wracks her brain for which single bunk he could be talking about - perhaps they’d managed to get more of the bunker heated in this version of the timeline and opened another subfloor for use?  No, if it were that easy, they’d have done it in the version of reality she just left behind.

She’s still lost in thought when she pulls open the door to Connor’s former bunk (her bunk, she needs to get used to saying that).  She locks the door behind her, then stretches widely and heads to retrieve a change of clothes, already daydreaming about curling up on the bed for a movie on her phone, with some ice cream to help cool her head off; she hadn’t had the luxury of privacy in god knows how long, months at least, and she planned to relish it.

But she stops short as she finally looks around the room.  Her things are scattered amongst various other bric-a-brac, her research encyclopedias stacked next to books she’s never seen before, and is that a _sci-fi novel_ next to her copy of A People’s History of the United States?  Sure, her life had become something straight out of science fiction as of late, but she couldn’t think of a single sci-fi book she’d actually read in her life.

The book becomes far less compelling, of course, as her eyes then fall on the bed - and the figure huddled there who is shivering, sweating, and sound asleep beneath the blankets.

Lucy blinks, then quickly (and quietly) rushes back toward the door, thankful she hadn’t begun undressing as she was just about to.  She closes the door quickly behind her and heads in Connor’s direction. “Connor!” she hisses loudly, and he’s momentarily distracted from the conversation taking place between Denise, Rufus, Wyatt and Jiya.  He takes a step away from the group to meet Lucy as she reaches him.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice lowered to a whisper as well.

“I thought you said we swapped rooms!”

“What?  We did, ages ago.”

“Then _why_ is Flynn currently my bed?”

“Your bed?”  He gives her an odd look.  “Are you two having trouble?  There didn’t seem to be anything amiss between the two of you before you left, but I know you play your cards close to your chest now and then when it comes to- ...Lucy, is something wrong?”

All discussion pauses, as Rufus abruptly notices the look on Lucy’s face.   _Oh good, now they’re all staring at me, that’s making the situation so much better._

She ignores the stares she’s getting.  “Connor, what are you talking about?”

“You and Flynn.”

“Flynn.  As in, Garcia Flynn.”

“Yes, Garcia Flynn, what other Flynn would I be talking about?”

She finally turns to look at the rest of the group.  Rufus and Wyatt appear to be just as confused as Lucy as to what Connor might be talking about.  Denise, on the other hand, looks baffled at Lucy’s reaction.

“Are you alright, Lucy?”  She comes closer, pressing a palm to Lucy’s forehead, ever the concerned surrogate mother.  “Don’t tell me you caught the same bug as your husband; we can spare him for a mission, but we can’t spare you.”

Lucy takes a step back from Denise.  “Did you just say husband?” She looks back at Connor once more.  “Who-”

The sound of the door catches her attention, and she whips back around just as Flynn emerges from the bedroom, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and despite how pathetic he looks, he manages to somehow still smile warmly as he sees her.  “Lucy. I didn’t realize you were home.”

_Oh dear._


	2. Chapter 2

In the wake of Lucy’s epiphany, most of the group opts to give her and Flynn some privacy to talk.  Wyatt clearly isn’t happy about doing so but is ushered away by Rufus all the same, leaving Lucy and Flynn alone in the main hall.  He eases himself onto the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, his face grim.

“What changed?” he asks her quietly as Lucy seats herself next to him.

“This is the most notable change so far,” she replies, gesturing between the two of them.

“What is?”  It takes him a second to work out what she means, and he somehow manages to look even more stricken (impressive considering his current state of ill health).  “Oh,” he says quietly, looking away from her. “You mean us.”

“I mean, we’ve been  _ close _ for a while now,” she says, seemingly more to herself than Flynn, “but this is...unexpected.”  Flynn simply nods, silent, and Lucy sighs. “Can you at least tell me how this came to be?”

“It was for a mission, at first,” he murmurs, idly picking at the frayed edge of his blanket.  “We were stranded in 1940’s Los Angeles for...a couple weeks, I guess, maybe a month? We’d been fleeing to the Lifeboat and the last of the Rittenhouse agents chasing us managed to shoot up the controls right before Rufus and Wyatt climbed in.  I was covering your retreat and attempting to take them out, which I did in the end, but not before the Lifeboat auto-launched without us in it. It took the team a while to fix the damage, so they weren’t able to come right back for us.” He smiles at the memory.  “We had to find a place to stay, so we secured a small short-term apartment, but of course being unenlightened times, they would only rent to us if we were married.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time we used that cover story,” Lucy points out, and Flynn shrugs.

“Maybe.  But it  _ was _ the first time you and I were alone in the past for an extended period of time, essentially having to pretend to have normal lives and hoping we’d be rescued.  We had just enough currency to support us for a few weeks, so there was no reason to bother with something long term like finding jobs, at least until we actually had to, and so we just...spent time together.”

She won’t lie, the idea of spending a few weeks just relaxing in her favorite time period without constantly worrying if you’re about to be shot feels like it would be a very welcome vacation right about now.  “But how did that translate into an actual marriage?”

Again Flynn smiles.  “It was a level of domesticity I hadn’t had in a long time, and I’m not sure you’d ever had.  Going to see classic films while dressed to the nines. Dinner at jazz clubs. Trips to the beach.  Dancing to Sinatra records in the living room. Just...a wonderfully normal life, and eventually, we realized we weren’t pretending anymore.”

It did sound wonderful, she had to admit.  “And what happened after the team came back for us?”

“Things stayed essentially the same between us.”  He rests one hand on the couch between them, as if he was about to reach for her before evidently deciding not to.  “Eventually the team noticed something had changed. We saw no reason to hide it anymore and just went ahead and told everyone.  That’s when room assignments changed, and then on a mission to 1950s Vegas we decided to make it official. After the Rittenhouse sleeper was dealt with, of course.”

Lucy shifts in her seat uncomfortably.  It would never cease to be jarring to come back to a reality you don’t remember, but this was a whole life she had seemingly built that had disappeared overnight.  She glances back at Flynn, who still won’t meet her eyes. If it was hard for her to have forgotten (or never known) all of this, it must be agony for him, who had already lived through it.  She finally reaches a hand out and rests it on top of his, offering him an olive branch. She can see his shoulders relax a bit at her touch, and he finally looks at her once more.

“Rufus walked you down the aisle,” he murmurs.  “You were radiant. I’d never seen you look so beautiful...or so happy."

She swallows.  “How long ago was that?”

“Six months, twenty-three days.  And we’ve spent that entire time worried this exact situation may one day happen.  Though I have to admit I never expected to be the one forgotten.”

That hits her hard, her chest tightening.  She knew from their history that Flynn had spent the last several years in self-imposed isolation, and had only just been opening up finally and letting his walls down, showing her a new side to the man she never would have expected, a glimpse at who he was before all of...this.  And now he was alone again, his family taken from him once more, thanks to a fluke of time travel. She was his Amy - their history forgotten, but no less important to the only one who remembers it.

She’s about to offer Flynn some words of reassurance (though what could possibly reassure him, she doesn’t really know), when she notices his eyes fluttering, a bead of sweat falling from his temple.  “Flynn, you’re still sick, you shouldn’t be up and walking.”

“I’m fine,” he breathes, forcing a smile that isn’t remotely convincing.  “I’ve had worse.”

“You know I’ve always seen through you,” Lucy says wryly, smiling at him and tightening her grip on his hand as she stands, and he lets her pull him to his feet, slouching slightly and swaying as he does so.  He closes his eyes until the vertigo passes, and Lucy waits patiently for him to recover, then leads him back toward Connor’s (or, theirs, apparently) bedroom. Flynn follows, his hand tightening around hers as he sways on his feet, and she instead opts to slip her arm around his back and support him as best she can as she helps him back toward the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, groaning as he seats himself on the edge of the mattress.  “I should be out on the couch-”

“It’s fine,” Lucy says firmly, helping him lift his legs up onto the mattress as he lays down.  She tugs the remainder of the sheets (sans the top blanket that he’s currently still wrapped up in) over his shoulders, then places her hand against his forehead.  He’s clammy and burning up again. “When is the last time you took your antibiotic?”

“Don’t know,” he says, already fading in and out of consciousness, and Lucy rolls her eyes.  He’d never been great at taking care of himself, so why start now, married or not?

“You rest for a bit.  Are you hungry? I can make us something.”

Flynn sighs, his eyes now fully closed.  “I’m fine, Lucy, you don’t have to take care of me.”

“Don’t I?” she says, eyebrow raised.  “I’d be a pretty terrible wife if I didn’t.”

He snorts softly.  “That’s not humanly possible,  _ moja najdraža _ .”

She has no idea what precisely he said to her as he lapsed into his native language, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Flynn has already passed out again.  She watches him for a moment, his face peaceful despite the sorry state his health is in. She’d be lying if she said there wasn’t  _ something  _ there, even before she left for the mission, something brewing between them...but the jump from ‘possibilities’ to ‘married’ was a huge one.  Still, she could see how it might have happened, considering everything that had transpired (and part of her wishes she’d actually been around to see Flynn’s story play out).

Lucy shakes off the reverie and runs both hands through her now-wild hair, then heads to finally retrieve her towel and a change of clothes.  First, a shower. Then she’d see about somehow whipping together something to eat for the both of them.

* * *

Freshly showered, Lucy heads for the kitchen to hunt down something to cook.  Wyatt is already standing at the counter, and she pauses briefly as she spots him, debating whether she’s finished being angry with him yet or not.  It’s decided for her when he finally notices Lucy approaching, and he smiles and nods for her to join him.

“Just making a coffee, want one?”

She shakes her head, giving him a half smile.  She no longer has the energy to be incensed, she decides, and so sets to exploring the shelves for something easy to cook.  After a minute or so she realizes Wyatt has been stirring his coffee for an incredibly long time, and she can see from the corner of her eye that look that means he wants to say something and is working up the courage to do so.  She sighs and turns directly to him. “What?”

He shrugs, doing his best to look nonchalant.  “How’s it, uh...how’s it going with…?” He nods toward her room, trailing off before he has to say the name.

“Fine.  His fever got worse again so I left him alone to sleep a bit more.  I’m starving - do we have soup anywhere?”

Wyatt reaches up to the shelf that’s just barely out of Lucy’s reach and retrieves a can of chicken noodle from its hiding place near the back.  “Thanks,” she says quietly, taking it from his hand. Their fingers brush briefly, and she quickly steps away, hunting for a can opener and retrieving a pot from the stack of them under the counter, but despite the noise she’s making, she still catches Wyatt’s quiet sigh.

“Lucy, are things...okay?  With us?”

She finally tracks down a can opener and busies herself with opening the soup.  “What do you mean?”

“There’s just been...tension.”

_ Oh, that’s rich. _  “I wonder why,” she mumbles under her breath, not particularly fussed whether Wyatt heard her or not.

“I’ll take that as a no, things are not okay.”  He takes a step closer. “Is this still about Jess?”  His face darkens somewhat. “Or Flynn?”

“See, that’s it right there, Wyatt,” Lucy says, dumping the soup into the pot and then turning to face him.  “You keep pinning this whole situation on other people as if you’re just this innocent party caught in the crossfire.”

“Lucy, I never expected to come home to this-”

“How?  How could you not expect it, even just a little?  You spent months trying to get Jessica back, and now that you have her, you’re pissing it away.  You weren’t the one that got screwed, Wyatt, so stop pretending you are.”

He falls silent again, thoroughly chastised, and Lucy returns to her soup that is just starting to boil.

“You’re married, Wyatt.  And apparently, I am too. So it is well past time for us to move on from…”  She swallows. “...what happened between us.”

“I don’t know if I can, Lucy.”  He reaches for her arm, only for her to move out of his reach.

“You’re going to have to.”  She rounds on him once more.  “And for the record, you can keep your snarky little jabs at Flynn to yourself.  That man has been one of the few things that has gotten me through the past year.  He’s been nothing but supportive and asked for nothing in return. And I’m not just a toy that you can walk away from and then come running back to angrily when other people come into my life.  I deserve better. And so does Jessica.”

Though Wyatt’s hurt expression stings a bit, the sting is eased somewhat by Lucy’s relief that she finally,  _ finally _ said to him what she should have months previous.  She’s not sure where the newfound confidence has come from, but it’s a welcome change of pace all the same, and she knows Amy would be proud of her new backbone if she were there.

The soup is steaming, and so she switches the stove back off and reaches for two oversized mugs.  Wyatt steps out of her way as she pours soup into both, and she takes one in each hand. “You need to get over this.  We both do.”

She heads for her room without another word, leaving Wyatt standing silently at the counter, his coffee now cold.

* * *

After a few minutes of rummaging through the room, Lucy tracks down Flynn’s bottle of antibiotics (under a pseudonym, of course, courtesy of Denise).  She sets the pills next to his mug of soup on the nightstand, then places a hand to his forehead once more. He’s sweating less now, but still feels hot to the touch, and so she heads back out to the kitchen - now vacant, thank god - and wets a cloth under cold water before returning to the bedroom and seating herself next to Flynn on the bed.  She dabs the cloth against his forehead, his jawline, his chin, anywhere he’s burning up (which at this point is still ‘all over’).

He stirs finally, eyes fluttering open and a smile crossing his face as he sees her.  “Hey,” he says softly, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Hey.”  She returns his smile and folds the cloth in half to lay across his forehead.  “You’re on fire, Garcia Flynn.”

He manages somehow to smirk despite his exhaustion.  “Story of my life.”

That gets a small laugh out of her, and she watches him a moment before remembering the medication.  “Talking of which, time to take your medication.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, sitting up, and despite herself, Lucy flinches.  Flynn seems to realize a half-second too late that he’s chosen his words poorly, and he quickly adds, “Lucy, I mean Lucy.  Sorry. Old habits.”

She shakes her head.  “It’s okay. Here.” She reaches for the medication and hands him a pill, then the glass of water that’s been sitting on his bedside since she discovered him in her room ( _ our room, it’s our room, Lucy _ ).  He gulps it down, grimacing, then notices the mug of soup.

“Did you make that…?”

“Yes, and I don’t like your wary tone of voice.”  She resists a smile. “Even I can’t screw up reheating soup.”

“Ah, just how I like my Lucy Preston culinary creations - highly processed and requiring very little effort from the chef.”

She grins and gives his arm a gentle shove.  “I’m not  _ that  _ bad.”

“No, darling, you really, really are.”

Their smiles fade somewhat, the moment bittersweet as Flynn again remembers after the fact that Lucy can’t remember them being this close, while Lucy finds herself wishing she did.

“You should get some rest, Lucy,” Flynn says, breaking the awkward silence, and he pushes the blankets off so he can get out of bed.  “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“No,” she says firmly, easing him back into a lying position.  “You’re sick and you barely fit on this bed, let alone that tiny couch.  I will sleep out there,  _ you _ stay exactly where you are.”

He nods reluctantly, then gestures at the other half of the bed.  “Alternatively, we can split the beds up, and then neither one of us has to have a shitty sleep on that godawful sofa.”

She considers the idea for a moment.  She’d been itching for privacy, which she definitely wouldn’t be getting out in the main hall, but then again, she wouldn’t get that in this room either.  Then again, Flynn would no doubt be sleeping the majority of the night anyway, and she could watch a movie on her phone just as easily in their bunk as she could on the couch.

Lucy finally nods.  “Okay. You stay put, I’ll move the bed.”

She isn’t sure, but as she tugs the heavy metal frame of the bed away from his half, she could swear she sees a small smile on Flynn’s face as he turns to lay facing the other direction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was aiming for lighthearted fluff, damnit, why do you keep dragging us back into angst, Flynn?!
> 
> (Oh right. Tragic dumpster fire.)

Lucy stirs in the morning and opens her eyes to find Flynn’s bed vacant. She leans up on one elbow and squints at the room, worried that he may have collapsed on the floor somewhere, but sees nothing. 

“Flynn?”  Silence. 

She pulls back the covers and is about to get out of bed when the door opens, and Flynn steps into the darkened room, two mugs in hand, no longer swaying on his feet and having traded his blanket around the shoulders for his usual grey hoodie.  

He smiles as he sees her.  “You're awake, good. I was beginning to wonder if I'd need to feel for a pulse.” He hands her one of the mugs, which she accepts gratefully, and seats himself on the bed next to her. 

“What time is it?” she asks, looking around the room for a clock. Flynn holds up his watch to show her the screen - 10:47 a.m. Much later than she usually sleeps; she must have been more exhausted than she thought. She stifles a yawn as she looks Flynn over. “You're looking much better.”

“Feeling much better,” he replies, sipping his own coffee. “Had some excellent medical care.”

“Oh, yeah  _ right,  _ all I did was give you your medication and make you some godawful soup.”

He smiles, the laugh lines around his eyes creasing. “I liked your soup.”

Lucy laughs. “Apparently this isn't an honest marriage-”

“I was teaching you, actually.” There's a sadness in his eyes now that silences her immediately, her smile fading. “You actually make terrific scrambled eggs.”

“Don't,” Lucy says quietly, looking away, and Flynn frowns. 

“Don't what?”

“Don't pretend that I'm someone I'm not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, we both know the rules of this.” She shrugs; she still can’t look him in the eye. “If you weren't traveling at the time history was changed, then the person who returns will take the place of the person you said goodbye to a few hours previous. I'm her, but...I'm also not.”

“I know that, Lucy.”

“I just...need some time. To process all of this. To come to terms with this new situation.”

Flynn looks as if he's been slapped. “Situation,” he repeats. “The situation being….our marriage.”

“No, I didn't mean it like-” She reaches for him as he stands and heads towards the door, but misses his arm by a wide margin. “Flynn, wait, please-”

He doesn’t stop, and the door slams loudly, leaving her alone in silence once more. 

* * *

Lucy emerges from the bedroom a short time later as the klaxon goes off overhead signaling a Mothership jump.  She sees Flynn already standing at the center console next to Rufus, his arms crossed and brow furrowed in concern as Rufus talks.  He catches sight of Lucy over Rufus’s shoulder and beckons her over to them. She sees Wyatt and Jessica enter the room out of the corner of her eye as she walks and she grits her teeth, her pace increasing so she won’t be trapped walking next to them.

“New York,” Flynn says as Lucy reaches them, turning to look at her.  “March 25, 1911.”

Lucy leans back against the metal railing and crosses her arms as she thinks on it (and Rufus resists the urge to point out how similar they currently look, standing side by side, arms crossed and frowning).  “The only thing I can think of is the Triangle Shirtwaist fire,” Lucy finally says, and she gets only blank looks from the rest of them. “A fire broke out and all of the doors were locked, the employees couldn’t get out.  146 people died, mostly young immigrant women. Some of them...jumped.”

“Oh my god,” Jessica breathes, her eyes wide.  “That’s horrible.”

Lucy doesn’t look at her.  “Yes, it was. It was also the precursor major growth in labor unions and major improvements in factory workers’ rights.  They modernized the labor laws and New York State became  one of the most progressive states in terms of labor reform.”

“I can’t imagine Rittenhouse are fans of unions,” Jiya says, still staring forward at her computer screen.

“No, they wouldn’t be,” Lucy murmurs, her voice full of bitterness.  “Workers’ rights are bad for the bottom line, and the peasants can’t govern themselves, after all.”  She stares at the date on the computer screens before her, eyes narrowed, going over the sequence of events in her head, not just of the day of the fire, but the subsequent fallout afterward, and her eyes widen slightly as she realizes what must be happening.  “They’re going to try to stop the fire.”

“Wait, hold up,” Rufus quickly interjects.  “Are you saying that Rittenhouse is going to  _ save _ the workers?  146 people?” He and Jiya meet eyes briefly.  “Isn’t...that...a good thing?”

“Yes and no.  That would be a massive change to history, 146 family lines preserved, and without that fire, factories in the US may have continued on with sweatshop conditions, even more tragedies like the fire taking place all through history and the possibility of far more than 146 lives lost.”

“So we have to stop them.  Make sure the fire happens as planned.”  

Lucy looks over at Flynn as he speaks.  The idea of ensuring the deaths of countless people makes her stomach churn.  “We don’t know for sure what Rittenhouse is up to. Save the planning for when we know what we’re up against.”

They stare each other down a moment, the tension palpable, and then Flynn simply nods and looks away from her.  Not at all the reaction Lucy expected to get, especially from the Flynn she knows and is used to, and she’s thrown off for a moment by it.

“Let's head out, then,” Wyatt says, already heading for the Lifeboat.  Rufus hops out of his chair quickly to follow and Lucy and Flynn share one more look before they too follow.  By the time they reach the Lifeboat the other two men are already strapped in, leaving the two seats closest to the door open.  Lucy ducks in through the hatch and almost jumps as she feels Flynn take her hand to help her through the door. She slips into her seat just as he does and fumbles with her restraints.  Wyatt turns, ready to help buckle her in as usual, only to find Flynn already leaning forward to fasten the various buckles for her. He turns quickly back around, his voice low as he talks with Rufus instead.

“Too tight?” Flynn asks, tightening the final belt and glancing up at her.  She shakes her head, flustered by his close proximity, and finally lets out a breath as he leans back in his seat to do up his own seatbelt.  Instinctively she looks over at Wyatt, only to find him looking back at her, his face blank, and she quickly looks at the floor instead, which right about now feels like a much better option than having to look at either man seated in her periphery.

* * *

“How do we want to tackle this?”  Flynn asks as he slings his tie around his neck.  He crosses around behind Lucy and before she realizes what he’s doing he takes over buttoning the back of her blouse without so much as a word.

“Hey!” she yelps as she feels his cold fingers against her back.  “Flynn, I’ve got it.”

He pauses, then drops his hands and steps away.  “Of course. Sorry. You just...usually…” He shakes his head.  “Sorry.”

Seeing the look on his face, Lucy sighs.  Well, what could it hurt - it would be difficult to get the upper buttons on her own anyway.  “Actually, Flynn, could you…?” She turns away from him, gesturing at the buttons, and he steps close once more, resuming his task with more hesitation than before.  Lucy pulls her hair over her shoulder, allowing him to fasten the buttons on the high neck as well. “What do I usually do?” she asks him, softly enough that the other two men won’t overhear.

“It’s a routine, of sorts,” he tells her as he finishes the final button.  “I help you fasten your dress and you help with tying my tie.”

“Oh.” Her face is uncomfortably warm.  She turns and finds Flynn working on his tie.  “What are you doing?”

He looks up, pausing.  “I was…” He trails off as Lucy steps closer and takes the tie from his hands.  He lifts his chin as she quickly ties it and tightens the knot.

“There.”  She trails a hand over the tie to smooth it down, then steps back and looks him over.  “Looks good.” She can tell Flynn is trying to hide a smile as he looks off to the side, and she can’t help but smile herself.  “What?” she asks, the hint of a laugh on her voice.

He opens his mouth to respond, just as Wyatt calls from behind them, “Let’s get moving.  We should split up. One team can check out the factory, talk to some of the workers, see if the sleeper is one of them.”

“Flynn and I can handle that,” Lucy blurts out, and each man looks at her with a varied degree of surprise.  “Most of the employees are immigrant women, some don’t even speak English. They’ll feel more comfortable opening up to another woman, and Flynn speaks...how many languages?”

“Six,” he says automatically, only just shaking off his surprise.

“Yeah, but-...”  Wyatt trails off.  Lucy knows what he’s itching to say - that he speaks four, so why not him - but apparently he thinks better of it for once.  “Right. Rufus and I will canvas the general area, see if anyone has seen anything weird, anyone acting suspiciously. You and Flynn speak to the workers.  Lucy, what time was the fire?”

“4:40 PM is roughly when it started.  It lasted 18 minutes or so.”

“Jesus.  Alright. Let's meet back here at 3:00 to touch base.  If you find the sleeper, take them out and rendezvous immediately after.  No matter what, make sure you are out of that building by 4:00 at the latest.  I don’t want to risk losing anyone.”

Each of them nods, and the group splits off, Flynn and Lucy heading toward the Asch Building just across the plaza while Rufus and Wyatt head down an adjacent street.

“How do we want to play this?” Lucy asks him quietly.  Flynn offers her his arm, which she stares at a moment before she takes it.

“Investor, maybe?  Want to tour the factory before deciding?”

“Making me, what?  Your secretary?”

He clears his throat.  “We could go the usual route.”

She doesn’t have to ask.  “Your wife?” she says, filling in the blank, an eyebrow raised.  She can see his jaw clench, and he nods. “Guess it isn’t a total lie.”  Flynn looks over at her and sees her tiny smile. “But I don’t have a ring.  That’s going to look suspicious, especially if you’re meant to be a wealthy investor.”

Flynn stops abruptly at the entrance to an alley, with Lucy nearly tripping as she continues walking.  He steadies her, then steps just inside the alley as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt slightly, enough that he can reach under the collar.  Lucy watches patiently as he fishes out a silver chain that’s hanging from his neck, with a ring, clearly feminine, hanging from the end of it

“Is that…?”

“It is,” he says, voice quiet, removing the chain and letting the ring slide off into his open palm.  He looks at it briefly, then holds it out. “Hope it fits.”

She takes it slowly, almost reverently.  The ring is beautiful, a vintage look to the gold band and capped off by a modest ruby at the center.  It is absolutely the ring she’d have chosen for herself if given the choice, something that surprises her even though she knows that in another time and place that’s no doubt exactly what happened.

“Not a diamond, huh?” she says wryly, a teasing smile on her face.  

Flynn smiles as he buttons his shirt once more.  “Diamonds were never your style, Lucy Preston,” he says as he then takes her left hand in his and holds his other palm out.  Lucy sets the ring in his hand, blushing again as he slips it onto her finger.

“It’s beautiful, Flynn,” she murmurs, holding her hand up to look at it.  It does fit perfectly, which isn’t particularly weird considering it belonged to a different version of herself.  “And you’re right. I was never a fan of diamonds.”

“I know.”

His response is loaded; she knows what he’s really saying.  He knows her. Of course, he had said as much a few weeks previous (in her reality, at least).   _ Sometimes I feel like I know you better than you know yourself. _  That conversation feels like a lifetime ago now, with a different man than the one before her, and she wonders whether it’s a conversation that took place between them in this version of reality as well.

“Why did you have it?” she finally asks him, breaking the silence.

“You gave it to me.”  He pauses. “Or... _ she _ did.  Before you left on the last mission, you told me to keep it for you, just in case.  You said it would be a good luck charm, help me get better.” He smiles at the memory, and she can see the pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Lucy steps closer to Flynn, and he freezes as she slips her arms over his shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug.  He hesitates a moment before wrapping his arms around her in return, his cheek resting against her hair.

“I’m sorry I took her away from you,” Lucy tells him, and she feels his arms tighten around her in response.  “I never meant for that to happen.”

“It’s not your fault.”  She can feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest as she rests her head against his shoulder.  “We knew this might happen. It was just a matter of time.”

“Stop being so goddamn stoic, Flynn,” she says firmly, leaning back so she can look him in the eye.  “I know you better than that.”

He snorts softly.  “That you do.”

They go quiet for a moment, just looking at each other, then Lucy takes a step back, pulling out of Flynn’s arms.  “We, uh...we should get going, we don’t have a ton of time and a lot of floors to cover.”

“You’re the boss,” he mumbles at her retreating form as she quickly exits the alley, and he has to focus hard to ignore the aching in his chest as he watches her leave.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucy knew, academically, what horrible conditions the women of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory endured.  She’d taught numerous classes on it, seen the looks on her students’ faces as she described everything in detail - the long hours, the low pay, the locked doors that prevented the women from escaping and the horrific aftermath when those women decided it was better to die quickly than to burn alive.

But standing in the doorway to one of the sweatshops (and there really is no better word for it), she’s finding it difficult to keep her face impassive and pleasant as she stays silent while Flynn bluffs his way through a discussion with one of the owners.

“Would it be alright if I had a look around, Mr. Blanck?” Lucy asks, abruptly cutting into the conversation.  The owner glances at her briefly and nods his assent before returning to his discussion. He’d barely acknowledged her presence from the first moment they’d tracked him down, clearly considering her a trophy for her wealthy husband’s arm and nothing else.  She’d love to give him a piece of her mind (especially considering she’s well aware he flees to the roof during the fire and therefore is one of the few who survives, an injustice if she ever saw it) but thus far has managed to keep her composure rather than give them away as frauds.

She wanders the rows of women seated at benches, watches their deft and calloused hands maneuvering the fabric.  None of them bother glancing up as she passes, the light already gone from their eyes; it was all they could do to focus and get through their shift without passing out.  Most of their faces are strained and hollow, obviously malnourished, which hardly comes as a surprise considering their low pay and the likelihood that most of the women had children at home who would need to eat before they did.  They had all come to America for a better life and were being worked to death because of it.

Lucy pauses as she passes one particular girl seated at the bench.  She couldn’t be older than 13 or 14, yet has the same beleaguered and world-worn expression as every other woman in the shop.  She’s one of the few to glance up at Lucy briefly with a hint of curiosity, but the moment Lucy meets her eyes she looks back down.

“Hi there.”  She seats herself on the bench next to the girl.  “My name is Lucy.” The girl looks back at her, but her eyes drift over to the factory owner instead.  Lucy glances back at them, then smiles at the girl. “My husband is keeping him busy, don’t worry.”

“I’m Maggie,” the girl finally whispers, and Lucy can hear a faint Irish accent on her voice.  A few of the women across from her look up.

“Maggie, get back to work,” one of the women hisses, but there’s no anger in her tone.  Just fear.

Lucy glances back at Flynn, who locks eyes with her even while the factory owner continues to rave about the efficiency and profit margins of his operation.  She nods her head almost imperceptibly - _get him out of here_ \- and Flynn immediately catches what she’s trying to say.  He puts a hand to the owner’s arm, ushering him back toward the hall, and Lucy can just barely hear him asking to see the next floor.

Once they’ve departed, she turns back to the girl seated next to her.  “There, he’s gone. Can we talk for a bit?”

“Beg your pardon, miss, but I need to finish four more shirts before the shift is over,” Maggie says quietly, not looking up from her sewing machine.

Lucy’s heart aches; she’s well aware that none of them would be making it home at the end of the day, and for a moment she wishes she could shout for all of them to leave, to save themselves, to get out while they still could.  But she holds back, knowing this has to take place, knowing how much good it leads to in the end, and not to mention the fact that even if she did say something, they no doubt wouldn’t believe her anyway. All she could do was ensure their deaths would not be in vain.

That didn’t make it much easier.

“I won’t keep you from your work too long, Maggie,” Lucy says gently, smiling.  “I was just wondering if you’ve seen anyone suspicious in the workshop today.”

“Suspicious?” Maggie repeats, confused.  

“Someone you’ve never seen before wandering around?  Or maybe a new girl who started today?”

“No, miss, nothing like that.”

“Did a new foreman start, maybe?”

“You and your husband are the only newcomers we’ve seen,” one of the women across the table says sharply, her accent far more pronounced than the younger girl’s, “and if you continue to talk to us, we’ll end up with garnished wages for the day.  Get your questions out of the way quickly so we can get back to work, something I doubt you’ve done a day of in your life.”

Lucy blinks at the unexpected rebuke.  But rather than take offense, she smiles with pride.  The woman has a backbone in a time when so few of them were willing or able to stand up for themselves.  In another life, she’d have made a fine union leader.

“Of course,” Lucy says softly.  “Sorry to have kept you from your work.  Which is beautiful, by the way. I love the stitching.”

The woman looks back up at her, brow furrowed; clearly, she’d expected a much different reaction.  She nods at Lucy before returning to her sewing, and Lucy stands and makes her way back toward the exit.

A foreman is seated on a stool next to the door, lazily reading a battered book and not paying any attention to the women.  Lucy clears her throat to get his attention, and he glances up at her with a sigh and sets his book down on the table next to him.

“Day isn’t over,” he growls, crossing his arms.

“I’m not an employee,” she says tersely.  “My husband is speaking with Mr. Blanck on the next floor up.”

“Sure he is.”  He reaches for his book once more, and she can swear she sees him roll his eyes.  “Get back to work.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous it is to keep these doors locked?” Lucy snaps, glaring daggers at the foreman.  “What a fire hazard that is? These are human beings, not _cattle_.”

“They’re immigrants,” the man mutters, still not giving her the time of day.  “They may as well be cattle. And I’m not going to tell you again.”

Lucy has to grip her skirt to keep from totally losing it on the man.  Not that it would do any good.

She finally holds up her left hand, showing him the expensive ring there, a ring that none of the women working in the factory could ever hope to afford.  “I am not an employee,” she repeats, her voice low and dangerous. “Let me out, or when my husband returns I’m sure he’ll have some words for Mr. Blanck about your conduct.  And I’m sure you enjoy having a job, so it would be a shame for you to lose it.”

The man looks between her and the ring, clearly debating whether she’s telling the truth or not.  Eventually, he concedes and gets to his feet, keys in hand to unlock the door for her. She gives him one final glare before she exits, and she glances back at the room of young immigrant women, aware this would be the last time she sees them.  She catches Maggie’s eye once more as the door closes, and the young girl gives her a tiny smile that she returns.

Flynn and Blanck have made it to the tenth floor by the time Lucy catches up to them, and she slips an arm through Flynn’s as she takes her place at his side.

“Well, Mr. Blanck, this is a fine operation you have,” Flynn tells him brightly, though he can feel how tightly Lucy is gripping his elbow, a sure sign that she’s either anxious or angry (or both).  “Of course, my wife and I will need to discuss whether this is the right choice of investment for us.”

“Of course, Mr. Flynn, I fully understand.”

Lucy turns her head to glance behind Flynn, hiding her face so she can whisper to him, “Get rid of him.”  Flynn places a hand over the one gripping his elbow and squeezes lightly, an innocuous gesture to others, but which tells Lucy he understands.

“Would it be alright if my wife and I take a look around?”

“Take your time,” Blanck responds, smiling.  “I’ll be in my office if you need me. I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Flynn.”

He leaves Flynn and Lucy alone on the 10th floor - the administrative floor, closest to the roof exit, where Lucy is well aware Blanck and Harris flee to in order to survive the blaze.  They stroll the perimeter, leaning close and keeping their voices low.

“Nothing on the 8th, aside from a particularly pigheaded foreman who almost wouldn’t let me leave.  Any luck for you?”

“Apparently most of the employees have been working here for at least a year.  None of them stood out in particular as potential sleeper agents.”

“What about the owners?”

Flynn looks down at her, eyebrow raised.  “They stand to lose both their fortunes and reputations if this fire takes place.  It wouldn’t make sense for them to build all of this up only to destroy it. Rittenhouse wouldn’t gain anything from that.”

“True.”  Lucy sighs.  “How long do we have?”

Flynn pushes the edge of his sleeve up with his free hand to reveal his watch.  Lucy has to bite her tongue as she sees it’s his smartwatch, a sure fire give away that they aren’t from around here.  He glances at the screen for the time then quickly tucks it back beneath his shirtsleeve.

“Nearly time to meet up with Wyatt and Rufus.  We should get going.”

By the time they reach the alleyway again it’s 3:00 PM on the dot, with no sign of the other two men as of yet.  They seat themselves on a nearby crate to wait, both silent and lost in thought.

Finally, Lucy sighs and looks down at her hands in her lap.  “Are we really going to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Kill those women.”

Flynn fiddles with his wedding ring, a habit of his when he’s lost in thought, and it takes Lucy a moment to notice the ring is different from the one she’s used to, something that shouldn’t shock her (it would be an affront to Lorena’s memory to use the same wedding band, after all).  And yet it does, as she realizes that the ring represents a commitment not to his deceased first wife, but to her.

Or, in a way, his second deceased wife.

“Lucy, I don’t know that we have any choice but to ensure this happens,” he murmurs, not looking at her.  “And I’m not any happier about that fact than you are.”

“I’m just not used to this.  Ensuring horrific things happen for the sake of the greater good.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.”  He smiles. “You never were good at watching and not intervening.  And I certainly don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

She smiles to herself and is about to respond just as Rufus appears in the alley entrance.

“Any luck?” he asks as he reaches Lucy and Flynn.  They shake their heads. “We didn’t have any luck either.”

“Where is Wyatt?” Lucy asks, her eyes scanning the crowd over Rufus’s shoulder.

“He went to check on you two.  Hopefully shouldn’t be too long.  What’s our plan?”

“The cause of the fire was never definitively determined, but the best guess was fabric scraps.  If Rittenhouse is trying to stop the fire, they’ll no doubt need a man - or woman - on the inside to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“Do we really need to do this?” Rufus asks quietly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and glancing back into the crowded street.  “It’s one thing to stop Rittenhouse from committing atrocities, but ensuring they happen is…” He trails off, looking somewhat ill.

“These people were meant to die today,” Flynn says, his voice morose.  “The scale of damage that could be done to the present is catastrophic.”

“Oh, sure, you’re fine with it,” Rufus mutters.  “You spent half a year torching history and anyone who got in your way along with it.”

Flynn looks at Rufus, stunned, his expression shifting between hurt and anger.  Rufus seems to realize a second too late that Flynn isn’t intending to fire back with his usual barbed response, that the statement may have actually hurt the other man, but before he can offer a hasty apology Flynn shoves past him, nearly knocking him off his feet, and sneers, “I’ll track down Logan.  Hopefully, you two can manage to decide on a plan by the time we get back.”

Lucy rounds on Rufus once Flynn departs.  “What the hell did you say that for?”

“Was I wrong?” Rufus fires back, defensive.  “It’s never bothered him before, and since when do we coddle him?”

“Since he’s not the same Flynn we left behind, Rufus.”  She pinches the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “From what he’s told me, you and him got along up to this point.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

There’s a lot of choice words Lucy wants to fire back, something that takes even her by surprise.  She’d never been a fan of the team badmouthing Flynn - for all the poor choices he had made while they were on opposite sides of this war, he’d been striving to redeem himself since then, something she’s almost certain was the case in both versions of the present.  Clearly, he’d made a bit more progress in this particular version, though she has to wonder how much of that may have been because his wife was vouching for him.

Instead, Lucy shakes her head and leaves the alley to track down Flynn.  Rufus hesitates for a moment, then hurries after her.

They catch up to him a few blocks away - he’d managed to cover a lot more ground than expected, which shouldn’t have been a shock considering his height - and find him standing kitty-corner to the Asch Building, silent as he stares up at it.  He doesn’t turn even when Lucy touches his arm, and she traces his eyeline up, only to see a hint of black smoke just beginning to drift from an upper floor window.

“Where is Wyatt?” she asks.

He looks grim.  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably around floor 5 or 6 by now.”

“We need to help him!” Rufus says, starting toward the building’s main doors, but he’s halted by Flynn gripping his arm.

“If we all rush in there, we could all end up dead.  He’s safer if he only has himself to worry about keeping safe.  And he no doubt planned an escape route.” He lets go of Rufus’s arm.  “For now, we need to wait.”

Rufus looks like he wants to protest further, but after a moment his shoulders slump and he nods, dejected, as he turns his attention back to the building.

It takes only a few minutes for the blaze to pick up in earnest.  It’s eerily quiet at first, people on the street below only just starting to notice and call attention to it, and it takes a painfully long time for distant sirens to start in the distance, as the early 20th century firetrucks and horse-drawn water carts start the journey toward the blaze.  None of them speak as they watch. As soon as the first person leans out of a window and screams for help, Lucy feels Flynn’s hand entwining with hers, squeezing tightly despite no other visible reaction from him, and Lucy squeezes back just as tight.

She holds her breath as people begin surging out onto the rickety fire escape from the 9th-floor window, and she only lets the breath out once Wyatt finally appears on the street, his clothes and face covered in soot but otherwise seemingly unharmed.  He spots them and rushes over, still out of breath from his rapid descent of several staircases. She offers him a tiny smile, relieved, before turning her attention back to events unfolding above.

“We don’t...we don’t need to watch this,” Rufus says from behind Lucy.

“I do.”  Her voice breaks, and she can feel the burn of tears that she blinks away.  “We did this. We don’t get to run away from the consequences of our actions.”

“Lucy, I didn’t-”

Wyatt doesn’t get to finish whatever he is about to say, as it finally happens.  They hear the sharp groan of metal twisting and buckling in on itself from above.

Lucy looks back up just in time to see the fire escape finally fail, and everything seems to slow as events unfold.  She watches in abject horror as the first few women are thrown off balance and tumble over the railing, falling the 100 or so feet to the ground with their screams abruptly cutting off upon impact.  The sound of bodies thudding to the pavement is foreign to her, like a nightmare unfolding in real time. She hears a horrified scream, and it only occurs to her a second later that it’s her own voice.

“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt breathes behind them, equally as horrified.  They’d all known the vague history of the fire and the impact it had on future events, but seeing living, breathing human beings falling to their deaths thanks to something as utterly preventable as substandard fire safety measures was nothing short of heartbreaking.

One of the falling figures lands near them, facing them with her unseeing eyes staring empty into the distance.  Lucy recognizes her immediately. Maggie, the young Irish immigrant that she’d spoken to only an hour before.

She moves without thinking, her hands gripping her skirt and hoisting it up so she can run more easily.  She shoves her way through the crowd of onlookers, rushing toward the entrance where a few lucky people are trickling out, coughing and stumbling.  She’s nearly to the door when she feels powerful arms wrap around her waist, halting her in her tracks and holding her back from rushing inside to do something, _anything,_ to help these people.

“Let me go!” she yells, trying to pry the arms away.  She sees the silver wedding band and realizes it’s Flynn holding her back and redoubles her efforts to escape.  “I have to help them, we have to do something, _let me go!_ ”

Flynn says nothing, simply holding her in place a safe distance away from where they knew more workers would land after leaping to their deaths.  By now the fire has engulfed most of the upper floors, the water pumps making next to no dent against the inferno. Glass shatters and rains down around the rescue crew, the sound of screams from above overtaking those from the onlookers below.

“We need to do something,” Lucy sobs, still weakly fighting to get away.  “We can’t just watch, Flynn, please, let me go, _please!_ ”  The smoke is now billowing out of the entrance as well and Lucy coughs, and Flynn pulls her further away, gentle but firm.

“We can’t, _moja najdraža,_ we can’t,” he murmurs in her ear, his voice impossibly kind, and Lucy breaks down fully, slumping in his arms.  She knows he’s right, knows it deep down, but knowing something must happen, and standing back to let it, were two very different things.  The latter feels akin to murder, and her stomach churns at the thought.

“Get me out of here,” she whispers, her eyes shut tight, and Flynn reaches down and hoists her fully into his arms, cradling her against his chest.  Normally something impossibly scandalous in such a time period, it instead fits in within the context, as he simply looks as if he’s saving one of the textile workers from the blaze.  Lucy rests her forehead against the curve of his neck, focusing on the feel of his stubbled jawline against her skin in an effort to block out the sound of screams and thuds receding behind them. 

She’s dimly aware of Wyatt and Rufus joining them as they beat a swift retreat, but doesn’t open her eyes until Flynn finally sets her down in one of the Lifeboat seats.  His face is almost as pained as her own, and the sight of it makes her break down all over again, putting her face in both hands as she sobs. She feels his hand as he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and traces the back of his fingers down her cheek before resting his forehead against her hair.

“ _Žao mi je, ljubavi,_ ” her murmurs, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and hugging her tightly.  “ _Strašno mi je žao._ ”

She leans back in her chair only long enough for them to jump back to the present, her hand tightly gripping Flynn’s the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moja najdraža = My dearest  
> Žao mi je, ljubavi = I'm sorry, my love  
> Strašno mi je žao = I'm so sorry


	5. Chapter 5

The bedroom is dark as Lucy sits on her bed in silence, hugging her knees to herself as she stares across the room at nothing.  Echoes of screams are haunting her, and any time she closes her eyes, all she can see is Maggie’s lifeless gaze staring back at her.

The moment they’d landed she had rushed away from the team, ignoring Denise and Jiya as they stepped forward to greet her.  She’d locked herself in the bathroom, desperately trying to catch her breath, and couldn’t rip the dress that still reeked of smoke from her body quick enough.  The water from the shower was scalding and yet barely seemed to make a dent as she scrubbed her skin raw, trying to wash away the memories of the past hour.  She’d already been witness to so many horrors of the past - watching as Abraham Lincoln was shot only a few feet ahead of her was perhaps the most vivid - but this felt different.  This time, she felt complicit.  She felt like she was Rittenhouse, readily partaking in mass murder.  And she had to wonder if this was how Flynn had felt, running through history and lighting fires in his wake in an attempt to torch Rittenhouse to the ground. 

She’d never sympathized with him more.

An hour or two passes before Lucy hears a quiet knock on the metal door.  She doesn’t respond, and after a beat the door creaks open and Flynn steps through, carrying a plate in one hand.  He sets the sandwich down on her night table, taking care not to make too much noise doing so.  The silence is tenuous, like she’s barely keeping afloat as it is.

“You should eat something, Lucy,” he says quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her.  She can feel his eyes on her, but he says nothing further, simply offering her the comfort of his presence.

Eventually she turns her head and glances down at the sandwich.  Peanut butter, banana and honey - her favorite.  She swallows a lump in her throat.  She wants to ask him how he knew, but she already knows the answer.

After a minute of deafening silence, Flynn gets to his feet and is about to leave her in peace when Lucy reaches out and grips his hand.  

“Thank you,” she whispers before letting go.  Flynn smiles and gives her a small nod, then leaves her to the silence once more.

Emerging from the bedroom some time later, she sees Jiya seated in the kitchen with Flynn sitting opposite her, a glass of whiskey in his hand. She steps back inside and closes the door before she’s noticed, keeping it open just enough to observe their discussion.

“She's different.” Flynn's voice echoes despite his hushed tone. “I have no idea how to interact with my wife anymore.”

Jiya sighs. “Flynn, she's still Lucy. We knew there was a chance this could happen one day. Did you two take photos like I suggested?  Have you tried showing them to her?”

“What good will that do? She doesn't remember any of it.”

“Which is the exact reason I told you to do it. Or what about her journal?”

“I have no idea what her journal says.  I didn’t make a habit of invading her privacy.”

“Even so, Lucy wrote it. If she's going to believe anyone, it'll probably be herself.”

“That never worked in the past, why would it start now?”

Jiya scoffs.  “There's a difference between someone she cares about handing her the journal, and a terrifying stranger accosting her in a field with a flaming blimp as a backdrop-”

“Zeppelin.  And you weren't even there, how-”

“You think girls don't talk? I know all about you, Garcia Flynn.”

Lucy hears him snort softly and smiles to herself. She had only had minimal conversations about Flynn with the Jiya of her previous timeline, and she finds herself curious what she may have said in this one.

She's also struck by how close this Flynn and Jiya seem to be, considering that out of all the people in the bunker, she's the one he sought out to confide in.  The previous Flynn and Jiya - _her_ Flynn and Jiya - had probably never said more than two words to each other one-on-one.

“Flynn, why are you really out here talking to me, instead of in there talking with your wife?”

“You mean aside from the fact that she wants to be alone?”  He sighs.  “Just wanted to talk to someone who actually remembers us. Remind myself I didn't just dream it all.”

Jiya laughs softly.  “No, Flynn, you didn't.”

“Can you tell me a few things you remember? I know it sounds stupid-”

“Doesn't sound stupid at all. Let's see.”  A pause.  “I remember every Friday ‘date night’ the two of you had, sitting on the couch with your head in her lap so she could run her fingers through your hair during whatever awful black and white movie you’d opted to watch. Or the mornings where you taught her to cook breakfast for everyone, and were _way_ more patient than I could ever be; I thought I was bad at cooking, but that woman cooks like the great depression never ended-”

“She's not that bad.”

“Oh no, Flynn, she really, really is,” Jiya laughs. “And I remember when you got back from that mission last week with a musket ball in your leg that got infected. She stayed at your side the whole time the fever was at its worst. I don't even think you were conscious enough to notice, but she laid on that bed beside you, reading, making sure you took your pills and holding you when you were delirious and hallucinating.”

He smiles and sips his drink.  “No, I noticed.”

Jiya nudges him gently with her foot beneath the table.  “Flynn, have you considered that this is the same woman that fell in love with you once before?”

“Of course-”

“So?  What’s stopping you from ‘wooing’ her all over again?”

He has no response to that.

“You are a great many things, Garcia Flynn, but a quitter isn’t one of them.”

Lucy closes the door gently and glances around the room.  They’d said there were photos, that she’d been writing a journal; both would surely be laying somewhere in the room.

She finds a photo album on the floor next to Flynn’s bed, tucked halfway underneath as if he was looking at it recently but attempted to hide it in a hurry.  She lifts it into her lap and seats herself on his bed, then flips open the cover.

The first photo is them standing together, the décor distinctly 1950’s Vegas kitsch, with Flynn in the middle of slipping a ring on her finger.  Her face is beaming - and it _is_ her face, she’s sure of that.  Seeing something she has no memory of is jarring, just as jarring as the first time this exact situation had happened to her.  The first time around, the photos of her and Noah had seemed like they were of strangers, but these photos...Rufus standing off to the side, Flynn smiling widely - these weren’t strangers, these were the people closest to her.  Her family, really.  This time was different.  And again she feels a pang of longing, wishing she could have kept these happy memories, even if they weren’t hers.  She didn’t have nearly enough of them anymore.

She flips the page and sees various shots of herself in the bunker - grinning at the camera as she paints her toenails on the very bed she’s seated on; reading on the couch while Flynn is napping with his head on her lap, one hand twined through his dark hair; half the team seated at a table that is littered with poker chips, with Flynn leaning over Lucy’s shoulder and pointing at cards in her hand to help her choose, head turned just slightly to press a kiss to her temple, and god, how _happy_ she looks sitting there…

She flips the page again and this time the shots are of Flynn alone.  He has a warm grin in every one of them, looking at the camera with an uncharacteristic softness, or uncharacteristic for the version of Flynn she was used to, anyway.  In one shot he’s seated before an absolutely hideous cake, one mangy candle stabbed in the top and sagging to drip wax on the icing as it burns, and he’s clearly laughing (she can imagine what her own reaction was to that, as the cake is obviously a Lucy Preston original).  The photo below that is Flynn laying on the bed reading, and she smiles as she sees the cover of the book is one she’d written years prior, one of the few she’d written without her mother as co-author. 

She flips to the end of the photo album, curious what the most recent photos would be, but instead finds a large black and white portrait of herself and Flynn walking hand in hand, dressed in 1940s era fashion, both of them looking at the other with such affection that she feels an ache in her chest.  This shot was clearly from their several week stay in the past that Flynn had told her about, the precursor to their sudden marriage.  Looking at the photo evidence, it’s becoming clearer and clearer how exactly that turn of events came about.

The door creaks as it opens once more and she slams the book shut, fumbling to slide it back under the bed where she’d found it.  She’s just gotten to her feet as Flynn enters once more, and this time he has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and an empty glass in hand.  He stops short as he sees her standing next to his bed and smiles, his face curious.

“I was just, uh…”  She tucks her hair back behind her ear and gestures to the floor, and his eyes drift down to the photo album that’s only half hidden beneath the bed.  Not sure how to explain herself, she shrugs.  “Just looking.”

Flynn continues into the room, setting the glass he’s carrying down on the bookshelf next to the far wall.  He unscrews the lid off the bottle and pours the wine halfway, then holds it out for her.  “Thought you could use this.”

She steps closer and takes it from him, grateful.  “You have no idea.”

“Find anything good?”  When she cocks her head in confusion, he nods again at the photo album.  “The pictures.”

“It looks like a crazy, ordinary, wonderful life,” she replies softly, smiling.  “Or as ordinary as it gets when you live in a missile silo, anyway.”

That gets a laugh from Flynn.  His face lights up in a way she’s not used to, and she scans his features, taking in every laugh line, every scar, the dimples that appear when he grins and the way his hazel eyes shine as he looks back at her.  Something stirs within her as she looks at him, a warm feeling in her stomach that she’s not sure how to interpret.

“What?” he says as he notices her staring, abruptly self-conscious, and Lucy smiles and shakes her head.

“Just not used to seeing you like this.”  

“Like what?”

She takes a sip of her wine as she searches for the word.  “Happy.”

“Ah.”  He lifts a hand, as if he’s about to touch her arm, but drops it back to his side quickly and shrugs instead.  “I was.  For the first time since I-...”  He trails off, but she can fill in the blanks herself.  _Since I lost my family_.  Yet again she feels compelled to apologize, though at this point she’s not sure the apologies make things better or worse.   _Let me just remind you again what you’ve lost in a weak attempt to assuage my own guilt_.  No, she’s said enough apologies; at this point, she just needs to allow him the space and time to grieve.

Rather than apologize, she instead holds her empty wine glass out for a refill, her mouth curving in a coy smile.  Flynn quickly retrieves the bottle and it’s mid-pour that he notices she’s still wearing the ring on her left hand.  “I can take that back, if you like.”

Lucy looks down at it.  She’d completely forgotten she was wearing it, in fact, and now that he’s drawn attention to it, she finds herself not wanting to take it off.  But she knows it’s not hers, not truly, and has no right to keep it, and so she slips it off her finger and sets it gently in Flynn’s open hand with some hesitation.  She sees a flash of something cross his face, a hint of disappointment, before he’s back to his usual stoic self.

She’s somewhat surprised to find she, too, is disappointed, and long after Flynn leaves her in peace once more, she finds herself glancing down at her bare ring finger that now inexplicably feels like it’s missing something.

* * *

 “Everyone is being combat trained.”

Lucy and Jiya both stare at Denise as she removes weapons from the large carrying case she’d carted into the bunker, a variety of sidearms that seem to be a mix of old revolvers and modern semi-automatic pistols.

“This seems a bit unnecessary,” Jiya says, eyeing the guns.  “I don’t even go out on missions.”

“Which doesn’t mean you won’t ever do so, especially considering you’re our only other pilot,” Denise says evenly, her tone staving off any argument.  “And what if Rittenhouse manages to infiltrate the bunker?  The last thing I need is my entire team gunned down because only two of them know how to fire a weapon.”  She glances over at Rufus, who is seated at the computers and clearly not listening to any of them as he works.  “Well.  Two and a half, I suppose.  Rufus, maybe you should-”

“No thanks,” he says quickly, not looking up from his screen.  “I’ve got the basics, that’s all I want to know at this point.”

“Any chance I can join in?”

They turn to see Jessica approaching, and she offers them a small smile.  Lucy looks away quickly.  Though she was doing her best to put everything between her and Wyatt behind them, the sight of his wife still made her stomach twist in knots that she was doing her damndest to avoid.

Denise looks equally uncomfortable, though for very different reasons.  “Jessica, you’re a civilian, I can’t in good conscience-”

“I’d still rather learn than just hope my husband finds me in time to save me from a bullet to the head.”

Denise sighs and nods.  “Fine.  All of you get ready - warm clothes.  We’re heading outside for this.”

“Outside?” Lucy repeats, surprised.  “We’re leaving the bunker?”

“It wasn’t my initial plan, but the trainer made a valid point about bullets ricocheting, and I’m not taking that chance.  I’ve doubled the armed guards above ground just in case.”

“I feel like it’s been forever since we went outside,” Jiya says, smiling.  “Or me, anyway.  I know you went out recently...the whole JFK thing.”

“And multiple trips to the past every week,” Lucy adds.

“Come on, you know that doesn’t count.”

“Who is training?” Jessica asks, ignoring the conversation between the other two women.  “Wyatt?”

“Both of our soldiers, actually.”

Right on cue, both Flynn and Wyatt appear from the back hallway, already wearing their shoulder holsters and slipping jackets on over top.  Wyatt crosses to the table with the weapons case laid out on it and flips the lid closed, snapping the clasps shut before lifting it to carry toward the elevator.  

“Dress warm,” Flynn tells them, his demeanor all business.  “We’ll meet you up top in five minutes.”

Lucy rummages around her bedroom for warm clothes and comes up short, and in a moment of desperation rifles through Flynn’s drawer instead.  She finds a heavy grey sweater that she slips on and is surprised to find it doesn’t dwarf her like she expected.

She joins Jiya en route to the elevator, the other woman similarly decked out.  They both spot Jessica heading up the hall toward them and stare staunchly forward, no one wanting to break the awkward silence that ensues as they wait for the elevator to return.

The three of them squint as the harsh daylight floods the elevator.  True to Flynn’s word, he and Wyatt are a short distance away, with Wyatt arranging paper targets against tree trunks while Flynn kneels next to the weapons case laying open in the grass.  A small pile of various holsters sits next to the case, which Flynn is sorting through as the women join them.

“We’ll work on basic handling,” Flynn says, not looking up, “and then move on to accuracy when drawing from the holster.”  He gets only silence in response and sighs.  “Just grab a weapon each.  Stick to the modern pistols for now.”

He finally looks up from the holsters and his eyes go immediately to Lucy, decked out in his old worn sweater, and he simply stares for a moment, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.  Lucy looks quickly away, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and blushing.

Each woman retrieves a gun, holding it awkwardly at their sides.  Wyatt finishes hanging targets and finally joins them, pulls his gun from the shoulder holster he’s wearing, and proceeds to walk them through a description of each part and how it functions.

A few minutes later they line up for target practice.  Lucy is quick to note that, while she’s a better shot than either Jessica or Jiya, it isn’t by much.  Her shots manage to pierce the paper targets near the edge, far from the bullseye goal in the dead center, which she knows is likely to do with how much the recoil is throwing her aim off.

“You need to brace the gun.”

She glances to her side and sees Flynn smiling faintly.  

“I’m trying.”

“Here, let me show you.”

Rather than demonstrate on his own gun, as she expected him to, Flynn steps closer to Lucy so he’s standing just behind her shoulder, and he reaches his arms around to place his hands against hers, guiding them into position.

“Loose elbows,” he murmurs into her ear, his warm breath ghosting over her cheek, and Lucy shivers briefly in response as her stomach does a sudden backflip.

“Like this?”  She adjusts her arms slightly; Flynn shakes his head and trails one hand down her arm to gently re-position her elbow.  Lucy closes her eyes briefly and takes in a quiet breath, her face uncomfortably warm.

“There, should be good.”  He lets his hands drop, though he stays in position leaning over her shoulder, unconsciously resting his hands on her waist.  “Now look directly down the sights, and fire.”

She takes a moment to follow his instructions, shaking off her...whatever it is that she’s feeling, and gently squeezes the trigger.  Though the shot still doesn’t hit the bullseye, it at least lands on the actual target this time, not hugely accurate but no longer throwing her arm wildly around.  She grins and turns her head to meet Flynn’s eyes.

“You landed one shot, Miss Preston, don’t get a big head about it,” he tells her, grinning in return and clearly proud.  He eases her gently by the hips to face forward again.  “Now let's get that bullseye.”

She lifts the gun once more and aims it, and again Flynn places his hands on hers, guiding her shot into the right position.

“Okay,” he murmurs, dropping his hands.  “Take the shot.”

This time the recoil is less jarring, and the shot lands just shy of the center of the target.  Lucy stares at it a moment, shocked.  Her shock quickly turns to excitement and, before she can stop herself, she turns, laughing, and throws one arm around Flynn’s neck to hug him (the other hand carefully keeping her gun pointed at the ground).  He hugs her in return, chuckling at her utter delight.

The hug lasts a fraction longer than necessary, and Lucy pulls back abruptly, suddenly shy.  Again Flynn’s hands rest on her hips as she steps back, and they look at each other a moment, something passing between them that neither can quite pin down.

It’s only seconds later that they realize they have an audience, as Wyatt loudly clears his throat.

“Flynn, I think Jiya could use a hand now that Lucy has it,” Wyatt says tersely.  “Lucy, could I have a word?”

Her first instinct is to say no, as she can tell by his tone the conversation won’t be anything good, but she nods all the same.  Maybe he’d surprise her for once.  She pulls away from Flynn with more than a little hesitation, handing him her gun, and joins Wyatt a short distance away, out of earshot of the rest.  Once he’s decided they’re far enough, he rounds on her.

“The rest of us have eyes, Lucy.  What exactly is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

He looks back over at the group.  “Listen, I get that you’re...I don’t know, rebounding or something, but Flynn?  Seriously?”

Of course.  Somehow, she knew it was going to be about this.  “Rebounding from what, our one night relationship?”  Wyatt flinches, and she immediately feels a stab of guilt that she shoves somewhere deep where she doesn’t need to confront it, focusing instead on her anger.  “My life and my choices are, quite frankly, none of your business.”

“Lucy, the guy spent the last year trying to kill us, and I know you _think_ he’s changed-”

“Well, he clearly changed enough for me to decide to marry him,” she fires back, “so unless I don’t trust my own judgment-”

“You weren’t the one who married him,” Wyatt points out, and this time it’s Lucy who flinches.

“Maybe not.  But it’s still my life, Wyatt, and I can make my own decisions.”

“Fine.  But can you at least be considerate of the rest of us and keep whatever this shit is to yourselves?”

“What exactly are you implying?”

“He can’t keep his hands off you.  You’re practically hanging off each other.”

She feels her face burning, and she can’t quite tell whether it’s because she’s embarrassed or angry.  “He was showing me how to shoot.”

“Yeah, and now he’s showing Jiya, and sure as hell doesn’t have his hands all over her to do that.”

Lucy glances briefly over Wyatt’s shoulder and sees he’s correct, as Flynn is standing next to Jiya with his own gun out to demonstrate the technique.  She shakes her head and looks back at Wyatt.  “None of this is your business.”

“I’m worried, Lucy.”  He touches her arm, and she quickly jerks away, ignoring the hurt on his face as she does so.

“You can stop worrying.  Don’t you have a wife to help out?”

Wyatt opens his mouth to protest further, then shakes his head.  “Fine.  But when you finally come to your senses and realize what you’re doing, don’t expect my sympathy.”

He spins and strides away from her quickly, and she has to resist the urge to yell a sharp retort in his direction.  Now seething, she turns and walks further into the forest, putting some distance between herself and the rest of the group so she can calm down.  She leans against a tree with her arms crossed and lets her head fall back, looking up through the treetops at the grey sky above as she takes slow, measured breaths.

He’d broken her heart.  He’d chosen Jessica over her.  It was rich for him to come after her now for her own choices about her love life (not that she’d made any real choices - it was innocent flirting, for god's sake).  

“Are you okay?”

She looks down quickly to see Flynn standing nearby, concern etched on his face.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What was all that about?”

Lucy snorts softly.  “Guess.”

“Wyatt shoving his nose where it doesn’t belong as usual, I imagine.”  He takes a step closer.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Honestly?  No.”  She lets her arms drop.  “I feel like all of my downtime is consumed by his bullshit lately.”

“Why don’t you head back inside and relax?”

“No, I should stay,” she says, sighing.  “I’m on every mission; if anyone needs this training, it’s me.”

“You’re a bit of a natural,” he says as she starts back toward the group.  “But I already knew that.”

That makes her stop, and she turns back to him.  “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been through this once before.”  This time he smiles without any of the previous sadness she’d seen any time he mentioned the Lucy she’d taken the place of.  “Albeit with less of an audience.”

“And Denise allowed that?”

“Well, not exactly.”  He looks at her with a glint of mischief in his eye.  “What Denise doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Rather than continue back to the group, she instead approaches Flynn, far more interested in the current conversation than in more shooting.  “Sneaky.  Seems a bit dangerous.”

“I can more than handle myself,” he replies as she stops only a few feet away from him.  “And we stayed in the area.”

She smiles.  “How did I do?”  

“Great, actually.”  It’s his turn to take a half-step toward Lucy, albeit more hesitant than she was.  “But you had some incentive.”

“Incentive?  Such as?”

Flynn swallows and looks away.  “Ah, just...a reward if you got three bullseyes.”

“Reward?”  She cocks her head, confused, while Flynn continues to avert his gaze. Finally it hits her what he must be referring to.  “Oh!  OH!  Um.  I can...I can see how that would be motivating.”  She laughs uncomfortably, and quickly coughs to disguise it.

“It was effective,” he says, finally looking back at her with a tiny smirk.  “For both of us.”  They stand in silence for a moment longer, and then Flynn nods back toward the group.  “They’re going to wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Right, of course.”

Neither moves.  Lucy again tucks her hair back behind her ear, taking one more step toward Flynn.  He freezes as she draws close, watching as she gently entwines two fingers with his and inclines her head to look up at him.

“Flynn, I…”  She trails off, not quite sure what she wants to say, not really thinking straight regardless, and she instead rests her other hand on his chest and arches up onto her toes, Flynn leaning forward instinctively to meet her halfway.  She holds a breath as she tilts her head to the side, looking briefly at his lips before meeting his eyes again, the butterflies in her stomach now almost unbearable as she then feels his hands resting on her hips once more-

“LUCY!  FLYNN!”

Lucy jerks back the moment they hear Wyatt shout for them, clearing her throat roughly and immediately hurrying back in that direction.  “We should, uh, we should get back.”

With her back turned, she doesn’t see the bright grin that Flynn can’t keep off his face as he watches her depart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone gets confused - everything with Jessica is still the same as canon; she's purposely faking being a bad shot so she doesn't blow her cover.


	6. Chapter 6

“What are you looking for?”

Lucy looks up from her crouched position on the floor next to the bedroom shelf and smiles at Flynn, her hands still resting on the crate of records that she’s flipping through.  “Just felt like some music.”

“Your phone isn’t enough?” he asks, bemused.  He closes the door behind him and joins Lucy on the far side of the room, crouching down next to her to peer into the crate as well.

“There’s just something special about listening to a record,” Lucy says, shrugging.  “It has a magic that iTunes lacks.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me.  What are you in the mood for?”

She resumes flipping through the records.  Most are various blues singers, being that it was mainly Connor’s vinyl collection, but toward the back she finds a small stack of classics from the early 20th century.  She flips through those slowly, then tugs one out with a triumphant flourish. “Perfect.”

“Edith Piaf?” Flynn reads over her shoulder.  “I probably should have guessed that one.”

“Why is that?” she asks as she stands and places the record carefully on the aged turntable against the wall.

“The story you told me.”

Lucy looks back at him, her head cocked slightly to the side.  “What story?”

“Your mother…”  He trails off as Lucy continues to look at him in confusion.  “Your old self...told me about your mother and father. When you were younger.”

It takes her a moment, but the memories flood back all at once.  Sneaking out of her bedroom and seating herself on the stairs to listen whenever she heard the familiar music floating up from the ground floor.  Peeking out to see Henry holding Carol close, swaying slowly, her father humming the music as he rested his head against her mother’s, both of their eyes closed and both looking so completely and utterly in love.  

Lucy smiles warmly at the memory and swallows a lump in her throat, doing her damnedest to keep tears at bay.  But the moment the opening strains of _La Vie en Rose_ float out from the speakers, her eyes close and she sways along with the music, her grief forgotten for the moment.

She doesn’t open her eyes until she feels a hand against her hip, and she jumps at the unexpected contact.  Flynn immediately steps back, lowering his hands at roughly the same moment Lucy realizes what he was doing.  He opens his mouth, ready to apologize yet again for the misstep, when she takes his left hand and places it firmly against her waist, then gently eases his other hand into the air to hold hers.  Recovering from his surprise, he tightens his grip on both her waist and her hand, and they sway slowly to the music.

Lucy smiles to herself as she imagines how comical they must look, Flynn taking baby steps thanks to legs that are considerably longer than hers and Lucy forced to stare either to the side or directly at his sternum.  She eventually decides to rest her temple against his shoulder, and for once the sudden increase in physical contact doesn’t throw him off; he merely adjusts his arm to cradle her more against him, and a second later she feels his cheek rest against her hair.

She briefly lets herself get lost in the illusion, imagining that this must have been how her parents felt all those years.  She pretends, just for a moment, that this is actually her life - dancing to Edith in the evening, wrapped up in arms that make her feel safe and protected and...and _loved_ , with the scent of his aftershave distracting her away from any other thoughts she might be having and the sound of his heartbeat steady and reassuring when so little else in her life was anymore.  The palm of his hand is warm and surprisingly smooth in hers, which really _shouldn’t_ be surprising to her, but she’d always had a particular image of Flynn as the battle-hardened soldier, keeping walls up around himself and everyone at an arm’s length, all sharp angles and biting comments, and considering how much he’d gone through, she could hardly have blamed him...but it was at serious odds with the man before her now, humming softly with the music as he strokes his thumb against the small of her back.

And for the first time, she can see it.  She can see how she could fall utterly in love with this man enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him at her side.  It’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

But her last tryst with a widower had ended in so much heartache, and here she was getting into this mess yet again with a man who had not one, but _two_ dead wives, both of which seem to be superior predecessors, and for god’s sake one of them was _her._   She’d have to be an idiot to do this to herself again.

Thankfully, before she gets a chance to actually make a decision one way or the other, they hear the alarm go off overhead, signaling the Mothership has jumped.  They part in a hurry, all business once more as they rush out of their room toward the center console, converging on the main desk just as Rufus and Jiya slide into their chairs and examine their respective monitors.

“Looks like...September 7, 1940.”  Jiya trails off as she looks over the location data, her brow knit in confusion.  “In...London.”

“World War 2?”  Rufus sighs. “Please tell me you mean _any_ other London than the one in England?”

Jiya shrugs.  “Sorry. In this case, it’s the one in the motherland.”

Lucy clears her throat loudly to get their attention.  “As in, London at the start of the Blitz, a 50-day bombing campaign that destroyed huge swaths of the city?”  She shakes her head. “This is insane, we can’t follow them into that. It’s suicide.”

“We don’t have a choice, Lucy.”  Despite his words, Rufus looks no more enthused to be going back into a brutal warzone than she is.  “Trust me, I wish we did, but...they could make _huge_ changes to the present by disrupting an event that significant.  If we stay here, we won’t even notice the moment everything changes, let alone do anything to stop it.”

“That’s the point,” Wyatt says, quickly cutting in, “how the hell do we even begin to find out what they’re actually doing there?  There are so many ways they could rip things apart.”

“Seeing as we only really have two options - go after them, or stay here - I vote we at least take a stab at stopping whatever they’re up to.”  Flynn nods toward the Lifeboat. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” Denise says, stepping in front of him before they can make their way to the ship.  She points at one of the nearby tables, where a weapons case is laying open to reveal two brand new sidearms and corresponding spare clips.  “These are for Lucy and Rufus. All of you go armed this time. This isn’t just dangerous, this is walking into a literal war zone.”

“No arguments here.”  Wyatt lifts one sidearm to hand first to Rufus, then gives the remaining one to Lucy while Denise hands each of them a shoulder holster.  

Lucy slips into the holster awkwardly and frowns as it hangs off her shoulders, clearly too big for her frame.  She fumbles for a moment, debating how to adjust the stupid thing, when Flynn quickly comes to her rescue, stepping in front of her and reaching to tighten the straps, his face all business.

“Thank you,” she whispers as she waits with arms held out to the sides while he adjusts it.  

He nods as he steps back, his face still impassive, but shoots her a small wink as he turns back to Agent Christopher.  “Can we go finally, if it’s alright with you, ma’am?”

“Absolutely,” Denise answers, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from Flynn’s voice, and she finally steps aside to let them through.  “Get in, find what they’re up to, and get out as soon as possible. I’ll be keeping an eye on the historical record on this end and I don’t want to see any newspaper reports from 1940 listing your descriptions among the casualties, you hear me?”

“Get in, get out,” Wyatt agrees, nodding.  “You got it, boss.”

* * *

The streets are eerily quiet as they make their way from the Lifeboat into London proper.  They’d quickly managed to find a line of clothes hanging out to dry that was thankfully close to their landing site, but it was proving difficult for Lucy to find an outfit for once, having to take into consideration the addition of the shoulder holster.  Women’s fashion of the 1940s hadn’t exactly been designed around easy access to weaponry. She had finally slipped into a floral front-button dress that hugged her curves beautifully, but the black leather straps encircling her shoulders thoroughly threw the outfit off.  

“Wait here,” Flynn tells her before he disappears down the street.  He’s gone for several minutes and she’s just about to send Wyatt and Rufus after him when he reappears with a dark green cardigan for her, a price tag still hanging from the neck that he rips off.  “The shop was empty,” he explains when Lucy shoots him a look. “Bigger things to worry about than a paycheck today.” He holds it up for her to slip each arm into

Lucy slips into it, then she steps back from all three men and turns in a quick circle.  “Can you see the gun at all? Am I good?”

“Perfect,” Flynn says softly, earning him a sideways glance from Wyatt.

Lucy blushes as she ties her hair back, and she turns to Rufus before Flynn can see it.  “Where did you land us?”

“East end.”

“East end,” she repeats.  “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Uh...no?” Rufus says slowly, not sure what to make of her reaction.  “It’s within a 2-mile radius of where the Mothership was last detected.”

“Wait, _last detected_?” Wyatt glances over at Rufus, his whole body on edge.  “What does that mean?”

“Typically?”  Rufus shrugs. “It means they got what they came for, or they left something behind that doesn’t belong; either way, it’s a quick trip.  They’re already gone.”

“So what are we talking about?  Is it a sleeper being activated, or what?”

“We aren’t going to know that until we get there,” Flynn chimes in, cutting Wyatt off with a tone of voice that is absolutely dripping with condescension, “so how about we get on with it?”

Wyatt’s eyes narrow in Flynn’s direction.  “Listen, buddy, I have had _enough_ of your bullshit-”  

“Wyatt, come on man,” Rufus says, nervously glancing between the two men.  “We have shit to do, you can beat Flynn up later.”

Wyatt ignores Rufus and closes in on Flynn.  “I didn’t trust you before and I sure as hell don’t trust you now.  Don’t think I’ve forgotten the events of the past year, even if everyone else has.”  He raises a finger as if he’s scolding a petulant child. “You are here for intel and muscle, got it?”  

Flynn swats his hand out of the way immediately.  “Get your goddamn finger out of my face, Logan, and back off before I _make you_ back off.”

There’s a beat of silence where the two men glare at each other with fire in their eyes, waiting for the other to finally snap, neither wanting to be the one to back down first.  

“We don’t have time for this!” Lucy shouts, her hands clenched into shaking fists as her anger overwhelms her, and the three men fall silent, all of them completely taken aback.  She ignores their stunned looks. “We have one, maybe two hours tops, and then those air raid sirens will go off again, and with no RAF planes in the sky to slow them down this time, the bombs don’t stop until 4:30 in the morning.”

Rufus looks at her like he’s about to be sick, while both Wyatt and Flynn back down, a look on their faces that Lucy has never seen before, and quite honestly somehow never thought she would see.  

Both of them are scared.

“Suggestions, anyone?” Rufus asks, his voice an octave higher than usual.  “I’d rather not be here when that kicks off, as much as it sounds like a total blast.”  He pauses. “Uh, pun not intended.”

“I’m with Rufus,” Flynn agrees, glancing up at the sky.  “The sooner we’re gone, the better.”

Lucy reaches for Flynn’s wrist and lifts it to glance at the screen of his watch.  Normally she’d have given him the usual lecture about bringing modern technology into the past, but right now she doesn’t have time to give a damn about that.  “6:15. We need to hurry.”

“Do we split up again?” Rufus asks.  “It didn’t exactly go well for us last time.”

“Too dangerous.”  Wyatt shakes his head.  “We stick together, track down whoever it is we need to track down, and then get the hell out of here.”

Hell was exactly the right word, they quickly discover, as they make their way down city streets that are more piles of rubble than road anymore, the damage getting worse the further they walk.  Smoke from the fires left burning in the wake of the Germans bombing the docks blocks out the sun, making it seem later than it is. Occasionally they encounter a team of firefighters working to put the flames out on row housing, but it does very little good; as one home is saved, the next one goes up like a tinderbox, over and over again, and the firemen look close to collapsing where they stand but still somehow manage to hold their water hoses steady.  

Lucy slows her pace and stares at the scene as she walks by, her mouth set in a thin line.  She’d never get used to seeing this kind of carnage in person. She’d seen many photos of the Blitz - her grandparents on her father’s side had lived through it, and had many stories to tell that she’d eaten up as a child - but not even that had prepared her for having to walk through it in person, listening to screams echoing from the inside of burning buildings, seeing firefighters with ash-covered faces seated on piles of rubble struggling to catch their breath before diving right back into the fray.  Beneath their black streaked faces she can see a few of them are just boys, no more than 18 years old at the most, and these are the ones that sprint up ladders with a seemingly endless supply of adrenaline to keep them going, the fear evident on their faces but their courage winning out in the end.

She looks back toward her own group and notices the expressions on both Wyatt and Flynn’s faces as they too slow their pace and survey the damage.  Her suspicions are confirmed when an explosion goes off in the distance - likely a gas line finally catching fire - and both men visibly flinch, Flynn pausing for a brief moment to close his eyes and take a measured breath.  He’s quick enough that no one notices. No one but her.

Lucy takes a step closer to Flynn as they walk and leans in to whisper, “Are you alright?”

Flynn looks over at her, his brows knit in confusion.

“You flinched.”

He looks away quickly.  “I’m fine.”

“Flynn, you don’t have to pretend.  Not with me.” She puts a hand to his shoulder.  “I’m here if you need me. Okay?”

He glances briefly at their travel companions ahead, whose backs are still turned to them, then lifts Lucy’s hand from his shoulder and presses a lingering kiss to the back of it before he gently lets go.

And there it is again, that fluttery, warm feeling in her stomach.

“We can’t go too far,” Wyatt says finally, abruptly halting.  “We need enough time to make it back to the Lifeboat before the bombs start again.”

“Technically, it’s mostly me who needs to stay close to it,” Rufus points out.  “I mean, worst case scenario, I can jump out of here and then back at a time when it’s quiet.  Last resort, obviously.”

“Which means we need to split up,” Wyatt mutters with a sigh.  “Fantastic.” He turns back to face Lucy and Flynn. “Flynn, why don’t you escort Rufus back to the ship-”

“Escort?” Rufus scoffs, affronted.  “If I still need an escort, why give me a gun in the first place?”

“He makes a fair point,” Flynn agrees, which does nothing to brighten Wyatt’s mood.

“Fine.  Rufus, you head back while we continue on.  If we aren’t back by the time you hear air raid sirens, get the hell out of dodge.  Jump back as soon as it’s safe, same location, and we’ll find our way to you. Understood?”

Rufus doesn’t look particularly pleased with this development.  “Can I just register my total discomfort with the idea of leaving all of you behind in a city that is _literally_ being bombed to the ground?”

“Your discomfort is noted,” Flynn says, nodding back in the direction they’d come from.  “Now get your ass back to that time machine.”

Lucy watches Rufus’s retreating form, a sinking feeling in her stomach growing worse and worse the further away he gets.  Eventually, she loses sight of him and turns back to Flynn and Wyatt, only to see they are several feet ahead of her already, and jogs quickly to catch up to them.  

The road is growing busier now, people appearing from side streets and alleyways to all head in the same direction.  A voice shouting in the distance turns out to be a policeman standing on a crate, shouting instructions to the gathering crowd.  

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.  We have an emergency air raid shelter set up at Keatons Road School, roughly five minutes north of here.  More planes could be along any minute, so if you don’t make it to the school in time, please take shelter beneath any sturdy structures you can find.”  He starts to rattle off landmarks to the crowd, mostly rail bridges from the sounds of it but locations that don’t mean anything to Lucy in any case, and so she tunes him out once more.

Keatons Road School. It sounds so familiar and yet she can’t quite place why, and is frustrated once more at her hazy knowledge of something important enough that she should have known it like the back of her hand.  But her main focus had always been on American history, and so her knowledge of the Blitz is somewhat limited to a research paper she’d completed in her early years of university. She’d gotten excellent marks on it (as per usual), and then she had promptly thrown it in a drawer and forgotten most of the content.  She used to tell her students _“Use it or lose it”_ toward the end of the semesters, encouraging them to continue reading up on the topics they’d covered in the hopes that they wouldn’t forget everything she’d just taught them...and yet here she was, blanking on arguably one of the most significant events of the early 20th century.

It finally comes back to her, why the name of the school is so familiar, and her face falls as she watches the streams of people rushing down the road toward the same destination.

“Where are they all going?” Wyatt asks her, clearly debating following the crowd, but the look on her face stops him from doing so.  “Lucy, what is it?”

“They’re going to Keatons Road School,” she says, her voice hollow.  

“So?  Does something bad happen there?”

“It takes a direct hit from a bomb.  Everyone taking shelter there was killed.”

“Which means every person currently sprinting down the road,” Flynn says, his face grim, “is going straight to their deaths.”

“How many casualties?” Wyatt asks, and Lucy is silent as she racks her brain for the number.  “Lucy, how many?”

“I don’t know, Wyatt, a couple dozen?  It’s probably a safe bet that most of these people are going to die soon.”  Lucy watches as a woman gathers her children around her - one of them no more than a few months old and cradled against her hip - and ushers them forward, following the crowd toward the school.  She takes a step forward, mouth open to warn them, then feels a hand on her arm.

“I know,” Flynn says softly, shaking his head.  “I know, Lucy, but you know we can’t. And even if we did...where else can they go?  Nowhere is safe in London tonight.”

She swallows and nods, watching as the mother and her children disappear around a corner - and then her eyes are drawn to something out of place, something that shouldn’t be there, and she has to blink a few times to make sure she isn’t seeing things.

A young girl, no more than 5 or 6 years old, is seated in the rubble, her arms wrapped around her knees while she cries hysterically.  In and of itself it isn’t out of place, not considering the horror around them - except the little girl is wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt with the cartoon image of Scooby-Doo printed on the front.

“Oh my god, they didn’t,” Lucy whispers, horrified, and she quickly runs toward the girl, leaving Flynn and Wyatt behind.  They notice a moment too late and rush after her, calling for her to stop and clearly not having yet spotted the anomaly.

She slows as she nears the little girl, not wanting to scare her away, and kneels down next to her.  It takes a second for the girl to look up, her face streaked with equal parts dirt and tears.

“Hi sweetheart,” Lucy says softly, smiling in the hopes of putting the girl at ease.  “What’s your name?”

The girl sniffles.  “My mom told me not to talk to strangers.”

“Well, my name is Lucy.”  She holds out a hand for the girl to shake.  “There, now we’re not strangers anymore.” The girl still looks wary, clearly not trusting this woman who’d shown up out of nowhere to talk to her.  “Okay, how about I call you…” She looks down at the girl’s shirt. “How does Daphne sound?”

That earns the tiniest hint of a smile from the little girl.  “Velma’s my favorite,” she whispers, and Lucy feels like her heart might burst - Velma had always been her favorite as well.

“Good choice.  Velma it is.” Lucy seats herself next to the girl.  “How did you get here, sweetheart?”

“My mom took me for a ride.  She told me to wait here until she got back.  Then she…” The girl chokes up, fresh tears welling in her eyes.  “She left me behind. I don’t like it here. I’m scared.”

Lucy slips an arm around the girl’s shoulders and hugs her close.  “I know, honey, I know. It’s really scary here, huh? I’m a grown up and I’m pretty scared too.”

The girl looks up at her.  “You don’t look scared.”

Lucy laughs and rubs the girl’s shoulder.  “Oh trust me, I’m probably even more scared than you, sweetie.  You look much, much braver than me.”

This calms the girl somewhat, and for a moment she looks quite pleased with herself.  It lasts only seconds, as she then notices the two men hovering nearby. Lucy looks up at Wyatt and Flynn, the former of which looks even more impatient than before and the latter of which is staring at the little girl with an expression Lucy can’t quite make out, which only serves to make the girl huddle in closer to Lucy’s side.

“Who are you?” the girl mumbles, staring up at Flynn with fear in her eyes, and he finally shakes off whatever shock he’s feeling to instead kneel down so they’re at the same eye level.

“My name is Garcia.”

“This is Velma,” Lucy states, nodding surreptitiously toward the girl’s shirt in the hopes that Flynn will catch on.

“Nice to meet you, Velma.”  He too holds a hand out for the girl to shake, and she takes it, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“That’s a funny name.”

“So is Velma.  I guess we both have funny names.”

The girl giggles and huddles closer to Lucy, suddenly shy.  Flynn seats himself on the girl’s opposite side, looking out at the mess around them.

“They dropped a child off,” Lucy whispers to Flynn, quiet enough that the girl won’t hear.  “Who dumps a child in the middle of a warzone?”

“Rittenhouse does, apparently,” he replies, his voice also quiet.  “She can’t possibly be a sleeper agent, she’s too young.”

“So what does that make this?”  Lucy looks at Flynn over the top of the girl’s head.  “A trap?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say so.  But using your own child as bait is a new low for them.”

“They believe in the mission above all else.”

“Only a monster could do this.”  Flynn glances down at his hands with a look she can read clear as day - _I should know, I am one._

There’s baggage behind his statement that Lucy doesn’t have time to unpack right now, so she files it away as something to discuss with him later.  “What do we do? We can only fit four people in the Lifeboat.”

“If we can get back in time, I’ll stay behind while she takes my seat.  Once the Lifeboat is recharged, you can jump back for me.”

She shakes her head.  “No Flynn, you don’t understand.  This city is woefully underprepared for this.  Those bombs go on for hours. You have no idea how brutal this gets-”

“Sarajevo.”

“What?”

“I fought in the siege of Sarajevo.  I was 17.” Flynn removes his jacket and drapes it around the young girl’s shoulders, Lucy letting go of her briefly so he can do so.  “I’m the only one here uniquely qualified to survive something like this.”

Lucy’s breath catches in her throat, a twisting ache in her chest getting worse as she imagines the Lifeboat door closing with Flynn on the other side, and before she can open her mouth to argue with him further, Wyatt returns from scouting further down the road.

“I can’t see anything else of note.  If this kid is the trap, then we had better haul ass back to the Lifeboat.  Think she can run?”

“How about it, Velma?” Flynn asks her, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze.  “Think you’re up for a race?”

“I hurt my ankle,” she says softly, showing them a small sneaker-clad foot.  “It hurts when I walk.”

“Well, that won’t do.”  Flynn gets up and kneels down in front of the girl. “Looks like you’re getting piggybacked.”

She glances up at Lucy, looking for direction, and Lucy smiles and nods.  Satisfied, the girl stands up on her one good foot, hops forward once, and then flops ungracefully against Flynn’s back, his jacket falling from her shoulders to the ground.  He’s quick to wrap his arms around her legs and he hoists her higher as he stands so that she can wrap her arms around his neck and lean her head on his shoulder to see ahead.

Lucy shares a smile with Flynn as she scoops up his jacket.  He plays the role of stand-in father well, a complete natural with children.  It occurs to her that Iris would have been almost the same age as this girl, and despite the bright grin on his face as he talks with the passenger riding on his shoulders, she can still see the shine in his eyes and the way his jaw clenches between responses.

They make their way back in the direction they came, jogging when they have enough space and level ground to do so.  The little girl on Flynn’s back clings tightly, burying her face against his neck as they pass the firefighters once more, the sheer heat of the flames causing Lucy to break out into a sweat almost immediately.

They pause briefly once they’ve run the fire gauntlet, trying to catch their breath; the acrid smoke filling the street makes her lungs burn in a way that is all too familiar to Lucy.  She can’t seem to get enough air, and it drags her right back to the night she was trapped in her car as it sank rapidly into the water. She feels like she’s drowning all over again.

“Are you alright?” Flynn asks, letting go of one of the little girl’s legs to touch Lucy’s arm.  She nods, eyes closed as she focuses on taking steady breaths of whatever clean air she can get, and the panic eventually begins to subside.

And then the sirens scream to life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as I finished up the last chapter, I felt really fired up to just keep plowing forward, hence a two-for-one update week for everyone. Thank you for your continued comments and readership, it's appreciated more than you know!
> 
> Croatian translations will be at the end as usual. Enjoy.

“We have four minutes.”

Both Flynn and Wyatt turn sharply to Lucy, and she can see the distress on their faces.  “What do you mean four minutes?” Wyatt asks, shouting to be heard over the air raid siren’s shriek as it echoes through the streets.  

“I mean we have four minutes!” Lucy shouts in return, watching in panic as everyone in the vicinity - firemen included - scramble in every direction, heading for whatever safety they can find.  Some dash into houses that aren’t yet on fire, others beneath the rail bridge, and some sprint madly back in the direction of the school that they had left behind some time ago.

“Lucy, we need a direction here,” Wyatt says warily, glancing all around them and then up at the sky.  “We’re never gonna make it back to the Lifeboat in four minutes. Where is safe?!”

“I don’t know, Wyatt!” she snaps, a little more harsh than she means to be.  “Let me think!” She closes her eyes briefly, trying to ignore the noise and screams all around her as she racks her brain for somewhere, anywhere that they might have a hope in hell of surviving the night.

After ten agonizing seconds, she opens her eyes.  “The tube stations, people used them as air raid shelters.  They’ll be the safest out of our current options.”

“Three minutes,” Flynn says, eyes on his watch.  “Where to?”

She’d only been to London once in the present day, during a conference, and had found the London underground so difficult to navigate that she’d opted for taxis most of that week - the exception being the singular line that she had taken to and from the conference each day, a route that her gut is telling her is nearby.  Of course, her knowledge of which stations existed in 1940 and which did not is next to none, and so she prays to whatever higher power may be looking over them, then looks for the nearest street sign that hasn’t yet been burned away.

“Kennington Station is near here, I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s the best I can do, Wyatt.  But we’re going to have to run.”

Flynn lowers Velma to the ground briefly and turns so he can bundle her into his arms, cradled against his chest instead of his back.  He lowers an arm so Lucy can tuck his jacket snugly around Velma’s small form, then wraps both arms tight around her again.

“I’m scared,” the girl wails, tucking her face against his neck once more and clinging for dear life as she cries.  Without seeming to think about it, Flynn turns his head and presses a kiss to the girl’s temple. 

“Shhh, I know _majmun_ , it’s okay,” he whispers, rocking her.  “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Lucy’s heart breaks for him; despite his calm reassurances and soothing tone (that are entirely for the little girl’s benefit), he looks haunted in a way she’s never seen him, as if he’s holding the ghost of his own daughter in his arms.

“Where to, Lucy?” he asks quietly. His voice has an undertone of desperation to it; he’s frightened, not just for their safety, but also that once again he’ll fail to keep an innocent little girl safe from harm.

She points in the direction she believes the station will be and all three of them take off at a full run, no longer hindered by a crowd as most other civilians have already cleared the streets.  The lights flicker around them once before disappearing entirely, but the road is still visible in the hellish light of the fires burning around them. The air raid siren is deafening in their ears and she’s certain her heart is about to beat right out of her chest when she finally spots the familiar sign for Kensington Station further down the road, and the open door below it leading to relative safety.  “There!”

They’re nearly to it when she hears it, and despite her instincts, she can’t help but pause and look behind them, eyes focused on the dark sky.  The buzz of the _Luftwaffe_ planes grows steadily louder, but she can’t see anything in the sky above them, only hear the drone of the engines drawing closer and closer.

She hears a distant explosive thud, the anti-aircraft guns firing on the sky above and the cloud cover (or smoke, she can’t tell anymore) illuminated for a brief moment as it parts, mere seconds as the shot fails to connect, but long enough for her to see.  A crowd of German planes draws closer, hundreds of specks pouring from their underbelly and exploding to the street below. It isn’t bombs yet, not the true bombs - rather, it’s their first pass, using a scatter of incendiary explosives to light up the city, guiding the raid to the spots that are most vulnerable in order to maximize the damage as much as possible.  

She realizes a moment too late that the wave of falling projectiles is headed in her direction, a biblical plague made real as fire rains down on the city below.

“ _LUCY, RUN!”_

That snaps her out of it.  Lucy whirls around as she hears Flynn yell for her and stumbles as she runs toward the entrance.  Wyatt is only just rushing back to her, neither of the men having realized she’d stopped until they’d reached the doorway already, and he meets her halfway, not saying anything as he grabs her hand and pulls her along with him back toward the station. Her legs burn as she struggles to keep up with him, but she still chances a look back over her shoulder at the flood of green fire burning a path toward them.  That lasts only seconds before she stumbles and is forced to look forward once more. She can see Flynn standing just inside the station entrance, the precious bundle in his arms held close as he watches Lucy run with sheer terror in his eyes, a terror that doesn’t fade until she’s safely inside with them. Despite their hurry, Flynn still grabs her as she reaches him, balancing Velma in one arm as he holds Lucy tight against him with the other.  She can feel his fingers digging into her shoulder, the only crack in his otherwise stoic facade.

Together they rush down the stairs toward the platform, and Lucy finally trips, only just managing to catch herself on the stair railing, but her grip slips immediately as the whole structure is rocked by the shockwave of a nearby explosion.

Now it began.  Now the real bombs were falling.  

The shaking gets worse and worse despite the increasing distance between themselves and the surface. They finally reach a platform filled with terrified Londoners who are all crouched on the ground, parents hugging their children close and couples clinging to each other with eyes shut tight.  Those few who were completely alone had simply curled up on the ground, covering their head with their arms to shield from falling debris.

Flynn maneuvers through the crowd as best he can, struggling to stay on his feet as the shockwaves of the explosions above throw his balance off, and he manages to find a spot near the platform wall with enough space for their group to huddle.  Flynn sits first, the little girl cradled in his lap, and reaches out an arm for Lucy as she kneels, drawing her close to his side once she’s seated. She reaches out to grab Wyatt’s hand and yank him down beside her before pressing her face against Flynn’s shoulder, gritting her teeth as she hears the distant whistle growing louder above them.

The bombs finally hit what feels like directly on top of them, a deafening noise that drags her back to every battlefield she’s been unlucky enough to stumble onto.  She can feel both Flynn and Wyatt flinching with each hit, and Wyatt’s grip on her hand is so tight her fingers are starting to go numb. The little girl in Flynn’s lap screams as pieces of debris fall from the platform ceiling nearby, hitting a few of the people huddled below but thankfully not doing any serious damage, and Wyatt quickly slips off his blazer and stretches it all of their heads as best he can to give them some shelter.

Finally, the shaking settles, the noise more distant now, and Lucy opens her eyes and looks around.  None of the crowd is in a particular hurry to get up, and so she stays rooted firmly in place against Flynn’s side.  She’s not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to get up, or because she can’t, as she half suspects she couldn’t move her legs even if she wanted to.  

Wyatt slumps back against the wall next to her and runs his shaking hands through his hair.  Lucy puts a hand to his shoulder and squeezes, both to reassure him and to get his attention.  

“We _are_ getting out of this,” she whispers, her voice firm.  Wyatt stares at her, fear etched on his face, then nods.  

Lucy turns her attention back to Flynn, who still has his eyes shut tight, sweat beading on his forehead.  She touches a hand to his arm and his eyes snap open as he turns toward her immediately, and for a moment she knows he can’t see her - his eyes are empty of anything but rage and fear, adrenaline and instinct.  Recognition dawns on him quickly, and he shakes off whatever memories are haunting him as he fumbles to take Lucy’s hand.

“You okay?” she whispers.  He gives her only a short nod, then rubs the back of the little bundle in his lap, who Lucy turns her attention to next.  “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Is it over?” the bundle whispers, and the girl peeks her head out from beneath Flynn’s jacket.  

“Not yet, sweetie.”  Lucy reaches out and gently tucks the girl’s hair back behind her ear.  “We’re gonna be here for a bit and the scary sounds are gonna happen for a little while longer.”

“How much longer?”

How can she tell a 5-year-old child that they’d be settling in for the entire night, that they’d need to wait through another eight hours of hell before they could escape?  “Not long,” Lucy lies, smiling at the girl. “Try and get some rest if you can. You’re safe down here.”

“I’m too scared,” Velma whispers.

Flynn hugs her closer, her small head tucked just beneath his chin, and rocks her gently.  “What if I told you a story?” he murmurs, and the girl nods, still shaking in fear. “Okay.  Let's get you comfortable and I’ll tell you a story, hm?” He gently coaxes her to let go of his shirt, then shifts her in his lap so she’s laying back in his arms, her small legs outstretched to rest on Lucy’s lap.  Lucy lays the jacket over her once more, then reaches beneath it to hold the little girl’s hand.

“Comfy?” Lucy asks her in a whisper, and the only response is a stifled yawn.  “Okay. Storytime.”

Lucy rests her head against Flynn’s shoulder as he quietly whispers a story to the girl, the words of which Lucy can’t quite make out, but the snippets she does hear don’t sound familiar regardless.  It isn’t long before Velma’s eyes grow heavy, her yawns coming more and more frequent, and Lucy has to stifle a yawn as well. She isn’t sure if her half-asleep mind is playing tricks on her, but she thinks that Flynn’s story has lapsed into his native language, or maybe it always was.  She smiles, letting her eyes fall closed, his deep voice a lullaby easing her to sleep.

It feels like only seconds pass before the distant wail of the sirens pulls her forcibly back into the waking world.  She’s ripped from a beautiful dream - her and Amy baking Christmas cookies together in their mother’s kitchen, so vivid she can practically taste the gingerbread - and she looks around, disoriented for a moment before she remembers every horrifying detail.

She sits up abruptly and sees Wyatt is still fast asleep on the ground at her side, his jacket used as a pillow.  She turns back to Flynn and sees that he’s awake, eyes unfocused and staring off into nothing. His gaze shifts over to her as he notices movement, and he gives her a small smile. 

“Have you rested?” she whispers to Flynn, not wanting to wake the small girl resting peacefully in his arms, and he shakes his head.  They can hear the bombs falling once more above them, this time distant, the Germans no doubt shifting targets to ensure every inch of London is burned to the ground.

“Rufus better have made it out of here in one piece,” Flynn says in a soft growl, “or I’m going to kill him.”

“You don’t exactly have the best track record with that.”  Her dark joke is rewarded with a small chuckle from Flynn. She reaches for his hand, hesitates, then decides _to hell with it_ and slips her hand into his.  Almost immediately Flynn’s fingers thread through hers, and both stare at the platform wall opposite them in silence, doing their best not to flinch at every distant explosion.

“We could die tonight.”

Flynn nods.  “We could. But we won’t.”

She snorts.  “You can’t possibly know that.” 

“Call it faith.”

She’s about to reply when she hears a faint whistle growing rapidly louder.  Anticipating what’s coming, she quickly pulls Flynn and the little girl in his arms close, shielding them with her body, and before Flynn realizes what’s happening the platform is again rocked by the shockwave of an explosion.  Velma wakes finally and almost immediately starts to scream. Flynn rubs her back, frantically trying to soothe her as she clings to his chest and wails, barely pausing to take breaths.  

Lucy realizes a second too late that the girl is starting to hyperventilate.  “Vel-” is all she gets out before the girl falls back in Flynn’s arms, silent and limp.  

“Velma?”  Flynn shakes the girl by her shoulder and gets no response.  “Velma!” He shakes her harder, more urgent, and when she doesn’t stir, Lucy hears a sound come from him that rips her in two, a low moan like a wounded animal dying.  He’s staring down at the girl with wide, horrified eyes, and a choked sob fights its way out of him. “ _Dušo, probudi se, ne ostavljaj me opet._ Iris!”

Lucy reaches out quickly and presses two fingers to the little girl’s neck, then turns her attention to Flynn, taking his face in both hands as he continues staring down at the child in horror and forcing him to look at her instead.

“Flynn, she’s okay, hey, she’s fine.”  She guides one of his hands with hers to touch the girl’s neck and feel the strong pulse there.  “She just passed out. See, she has a pulse. She’s gonna be okay, Flynn, she’s fine.”

Flynn wrenches his eyes away from the little girl to look back at Lucy, and her warm, reassuring smile is all it takes to undo him.  He breaks down, hunched over and sobbing without a care as to who sees him as years of pain pour out of him. Lucy carefully takes the unconscious girl from his arms and rests her on the floor next to Wyatt, Flynn’s jacket now behind her head as a pillow, then pulls him into her arms and holds him as he crumples against her.  She feels his pain like a knife to the heart, tears burning behind her eyes that she manages to hold back. “It’s okay,” she whispers, one hand threading through his hair. “We’re all okay, Garcia.”

She feels his arms slide around her back, clinging to her as if for dear life.  She continues to run her fingers through his hair, waiting patiently as all of the pain bleeds out of him in a torrential rush. 

It takes him a few moments to recover, but eventually he sits up straight, wiping his face on his shirtsleeve, looking deeply ashamed of his moment of weakness.

“It was-” he starts, but chokes on his words.

“You saw her.  I know.” She doesn’t need him to say it.  A child seemingly dead in his arms, and not just a child, but a tiny 5-year-old girl.  It was a living nightmare for him, dragging him back to that night four years ago. He’d never given her the details of it, at least not this version of her, but she knew something in him broke that night that never quite healed.

Flynn looks over at Lucy again, his eyes scanning her face in a way that makes her feel uncomfortably exposed, and he reaches out a hand to trail the back of his fingers down her cheek.  Her eyes are drawn to his lips briefly before she looks back up, only to see his gaze shifting back up as well.

“I know you aren’t her,” he says softly, his voice a quiet rasp, “but sometimes I just…”

“Miss her,” Lucy fills in.  “I know you do.”

“She... _you_...were my rock, Lucy.  The one good thing in my life after I lost my family, after I lost everything.  You have no idea how much I loved you.”

Her heart jumps into her throat for a brief moment before she realizes he’s using the past tense, which...of _course_ it’s past tense, he’s not talking about _her_ , not really, and she knows that.  

“And I’m sure I loved you just as much,” she says gently.  There’s no way she could really know that, not having any connection to her other self, but somehow she knows it’s the truth, and she cups his cheek, smiling.  “You have a good heart, Garcia Flynn. I was lucky to have a man like you by my side.”

Something in his gaze softens, and before Lucy can react, Flynn leans forward and kisses her.  It’s a brief kiss, his lips barely brushing against hers and not leaving her with enough time to decide whether or not to return it before he pulls away.  He rests his back against the wall once more, looking away from her, and murmurs a quiet, “Sorry.”

Lucy rests her back against the cold ceramic tile as well and touches her fingers to her lips as an involuntary smile makes its way onto her face.  It was a bold move, somehow reminding her of the spontaneous version of Flynn that she used to know - but the way he kissed her was so telling even in its briefness.  He kissed her as if he’d done so a million times before, as if he’d memorized the shape of her lips and the exact way in which she loved to be kissed.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispers, but it’s all she can say before they hear the sirens groan to life once more.  Both of them glance up as dust falls from the shaking ceiling once more, the bombs exploding in the distance. Lucy rests her head against his shoulder, without even the energy to be terrified anymore.

It would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Croatian: 
> 
> Majmun = Monkey  
> "Dušo, probudi se, ne ostavljaj me opet." = Honey, wake up, don't leave me again


	8. Chapter 8

Lucy stirs, her eyes slowly fluttering open as she wakes, and she glances around to find most of the inhabitants of the platform still fast asleep, her companions included.  Flynn is slumped against the wall, his head down and snoring lightly, while to her right Wyatt is stretched out on his side. At some point in the night he’d managed to gather Velma into his arms and she too is fast asleep, her cheek resting against his shoulder while she tightly grips his shirt for comfort.  It’s a peaceful tableau despite the circumstances that had brought them all to the tunnels, a moment’s reprieve from the horror above ground.

She lifts Flynn’s wrist, doing her best not to wake him, and pushes back his sleeve to check the screen of his watch - 06:30, which meant the bombardment had ended maybe an hour ago, leaving a cautious silence in its wake.    


She gets to her feet, smoothing her dress down over her legs and tugging her cardigan forward to ensure the gun beneath it is still hidden, then steps carefully between the other sleeping figures on the platform to make her way to the stairs upward.  Debris from the ceiling now littering the floor makes it a difficult climb, but she somehow manages it, feeling a growing sense of dread as she approaches the station exit.    


The first thing she sees as she reaches the surface is a hazy yellow sky, the sunrise blocked out by plumes of smoke. If that wasn’t bad enough on it’s own, she also spots a city bus laying propped up against the ruins of a building across the road, the bottom covered in rubble while the top half sticks up like a ship sinking beneath turbulent waters.  It’s such a foreign sight that she simply stares for a moment, her brain trying to make sense of it.

“Miss, are you alright?”

She jumps at the sudden voice to her left and turns to see a man no older than 20 approaching her, his tired face still grimy with both soot and dirt.  It takes her a second to realize he’s one of the many firefighters currently wandering the street either putting out the few still-smoldering flames or digging injured civilians out of the rubble.

“I’m fine,” she replies, offering him a smile before she gently adds, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looks surprised as she speaks.  “American? You picked an odd time to go on holiday, miss.”  He laughs weakly at his own attempt at a joke. “Best thing you can do for now is try to stay out of our way.  Unless...do you happen to be a nurse or doctor?”

“No such luck, unfortunately.”

He shrugs.  “Worth a shot.  You have a good day, miss.”  He tips his hat to her, then continues down the road toward someone collapsed in nearby rubble.

Lucy rushes back down to the platform and sees the crowd stirring.  Wyatt and Flynn are both awake and on their feet, with Velma now cradled in Wyatt’s arms and still fast asleep against his shoulder.  Both men visibly relax as they spot her through the crowd, and she hurries over to them.

“We were just about to panic,” Wyatt says quietly as she reaches them, not wanting to wake the girl in his arms.  “How are things topside?”

“Quiet.  Horrible, but quiet.”

“We should get back to where the Lifeboat will be landing,” Flynn says, slipping his jacket on again so that his pistol will be hidden.  The events of the previous night had taken attention off their weapons - not surprising, bombs falling tended to be higher priority - and now that things had calmed down, the last thing they needed was someone suspicious that they might be Axis spies.

“The bombs tapered off about an hour or so ago; at least, I think they did,” Lucy says as she leads the way up the stairs.  “Hopefully the team figured that out and Rufus is already waiting.”

They wander slowly up the road in the direction of the landing site, their eyes and throats burning from the acrid smoke still hanging thick upon the air.  The people around them are either in ridiculously high spirits (a beautiful display of the classic English stiff upper lip) or dazed from shell shock, and most are simply sitting down in the rubble, unsure what to do with themselves.  Social etiquette didn’t exactly make provisions for one’s home being destroyed.

It takes an hour of walking to reach the landing site, and they find the warehouse space empty, no sign of the dusty floor having been disturbed recently.  It’s unlikely that Rufus had yet returned, which relieves her somewhat; at least they hadn’t missed him entirely.

“Let’s set up camp here for now,” Wyatt says, easing Velma out of his arms and into Flynn’s instead.  “I’ll go and see if I can track down something to eat.”

Velma starts to wake shortly after Wyatt leaves and leans back in Flynn’s arms to look at him through half-lidded eyes.  There’s a total lack of recognition on her face, but the expression fades as she takes in their surroundings and remembers the events of the night before.

“How’re you doing?” Lucy asks her, rubbing her back gently.

Velma attempts a smile, but they can see the tears that she’s struggling to hold back.  “I’m okay,” she whispers, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“What a tough, brave girl you are.”  Lucy tugs the edge of her cardigan sleeve down and gently wipes the girl’s cheeks with it to clear away the dried tears.  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll be out of here soon. We just have to wait for our ride.”

She brightens instantly.  “Is my mommy coming back like she said?”

Lucy shares a glance with Flynn.  Even if they were able to track down the girl’s parents, no small task in and of itself, there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d be handing her back to a family who saw fit to abandon her to die in a war-zone.  “We’ll see,” she finally replies. “Try to relax for now and Wyatt will find us some breakfast.”

As promised, Wyatt returns a short time later with a bundle of apples that he hands out to each of them.  The adults of the group have just finished theirs and Velma is halfway through hers when the dirt nearby starts to kick up, and Lucy quickly kneels in front of the girl to shield her from the gravitational shockwave she knows is coming as the Lifeboat lands.    


Once it’s landed and powered down, the door cycles open and Rufus appears at the hatch, his panic fading into pure relief as he sees them.  “Oh thank god, I was dreading having to track you down…” He trails off as he looks up at the yellow sky, the sun still just a vague dot of light behind the smoke.  “Jesus, I’m glad I missed this.”

“You should be,” Wyatt mutters as he pulls himself up into the ship.  He turns back as Flynn hoists Velma into the air and helps the girl scramble into the capsule.

Rufus stares at them through the whole process.  “Clearly I’m missing something. Why, exactly, are we kidnapping a small child, and why does she look like the 90s threw up all over her?”

“She’s not circa 1940, Rufus,” Wyatt says as he works on strapping Velma into one of the seats.

“Valid point.  Rittenhouse’s doing, I assume?”

“Most likely,” Lucy mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose as a headache builds.  “Long story that we should definitely save for when we get home, seeing as I don’t remember when the Germans come next.”    


“Problem with that.” Rufus jabs a thumb over his shoulder.  “We’ve got four seats and five bodies.”

“I’m staying behind,” Flynn replies in a tone that says it’s not up for discussion.  “You can come back for me after.”

Rufus shoots Lucy a wary glance.  Her face is grim, but she swallows her protests.  She knows Flynn is right, knows there’s no choice and that he would be best suited to hang back, but it doesn’t make the idea of leaving him behind any easier for her.

“One hitch with that plan.  We only have enough charge for this return trip.”  Rufus looks back at the monitors. “It’ll be at least two hours in the present before we’ll make it back.  I can probably jump to a few minutes from now so you don’t have to wait, but you’ll need to make sure the area stays clear for landing.”

“Good thing I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Rufus nods and disappears back inside to strap himself in.  Lucy turns her attention back to Flynn, her heart thudding in her chest.  He looks both confident and nervous, his eyes trained intently on her as he nods for her to follow Rufus.

“Lucy, we need to go,” Rufus calls from his seat, still busy with the control panel in front of him.    


“Just a second,” she calls, not taking her eyes off Flynn.  She takes a step closer to him as the noise of the concentric rings of the Lifeboat rotating drowns out any sound from within the capsule and, she assumes, vice-versa.  “Flynn, more bombs could drop at any moment.”

“I’ve had worse.”

That gets a brief smile out of her.  “Regardless of whether or not that’s true, if the bombing starts again, make sure you find a below ground shelter.”

“It’s just a few minutes for me, Lucy.  I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

She reaches out to take his hand.  “You damn well better be fine when I get back.”  The fear is evident in both of their eyes, a fear that neither is willing to admit to the other.

“Lucy!  Now or never!”

She quickly arches up onto her toes to press a lingering kiss to Flynn’s stubbled cheek, ignoring any looks she might be getting from the rest of her team, and cups his face as she pulls away.  “Stay safe. Please.”    


She turns to crawl into the Lifeboat and finds herself hoisted into the air as Flynn lifts her up by the waist.  Wyatt extends a hand from his seated position to help pull her inside, and once she’s seated she lets out a breath that it feels like she’s been holding for hours.   She’s never been more thankful to be strapped into the dented tin can that is their ship, claustrophobia be damned, and the sooner she could put the Blitz behind her, the better.

Still, despite the relief she feels to be going home, she watches Flynn as the door cycles shut, and he stares back at her in turn, winking just before he disappears from view.  Lucy leans back in the chair and grips the edges of her seat as the Lifeboat lurches and departs, her stomach reeling in a way that she knows has nothing to do with the return journey.

* * *

Rufus is the first to disembark once they land, and he opts to skip the stairs entirely in favor of vaulting himself over the railing and to the ground so he can slip beneath the ship and get it charging sooner than later.  Wyatt is next out after him, leaving Lucy to unstrap both herself and their small passenger.

“You doing okay, honey?”

Velma nods, but as soon as the seatbelts are off she throws her arms around Lucy’s neck, a tiny groan escaping as she clearly struggles not to puke.  Lucy lifts her up and rests her against one hip as she maneuvers them out of the ship, and she bypasses the group discussion entirely to instead take Velma over to the makeshift living room.  She sets the little girl on the couch facing the TV and puts on a movie for her, opting for a black and white age-appropriate film that she knows will bore the girl to tears but should at least keep her distracted long enough to figure out their plan.  Once Velma is settled, Lucy heads back toward the rest of the team.

“And you left him behind?” Denise asks incredulously, glancing only briefly at Lucy as she joins them mid-discussion before turning her attention back to Wyatt.

“He didn’t give us a choice, boss.  We’re heading back once the Lifeboat is charged.”

“How, exactly, are you planning to find him?”

“We agreed to head to the same spot, a few minutes after we left.”

Denise sighs and nods in the direction of the living room.  “And who is the small passenger that took Flynn’s seat?”

“We don’t know,” Lucy says, looking over at Velma, who is currently cocooned in a blanket to watch her movie.  “It seems she’s a Rittenhouse progeny, but from what we can tell, she was there as bait - distract us long enough for the bombing to start.  The whole thing was a trap.”

“They were willing to sacrifice a child just to take us out?” Jiya says, horrified.  “That’s a whole new level of messed up.”

“The mission comes first, cost be damned,” Wyatt mutters with a shrug, his eyes downcast.    


Lucy glances over at him, but can’t catch his eye.  She knows the reason for his abrupt morose demeanor, of course.  He’d once been in the same position, ready and willing to sacrifice not only his own life, but the lives of her and Rufus as well.  But that still paled in comparison to abandoning his own child, something she knows he’d never do regardless of circumstances. Lucy offers him a small empathetic smile as he looks up again, a smile he returns, and for a moment it feels almost like old times.

Almost.

“We have roughly an hour to kill,” Rufus says as he joins them, wiping his greasy hands on his 1940s dress pants and making the historical fashion nerd in Lucy thoroughly cringe.  “I, for one, am going to use this time to finally shower.”

“Good plan,” Wyatt mumbles, rubbing a hand over his tired face.  “I should probably go check on my wife.”

Lucy sees a confused Denise silently mouth  _ wife?  _ at Jiya as Wyatt disappears down the hall, to which Jiya offers an equally confused shrug.  Lucy is about to ask what’s wrong when they hear Wyatt’s heavy steps sprinting back toward the kitchen, and they all turn to see him marching toward Denise, fire in his eyes and clearly angry.

“Where the hell is she, Christopher?”

“Where is who?”

“Jessica!” he shouts.  “I can’t keep her safe if she’s out there with Rittenhouse keeping tabs-”

Denise raises a hand to cut him off.  “Wyatt, I have no idea who ‘Jessica’ is, let alone where she might be.”

There’s a beat of silence as Wyatt stares blankly at Agent Christopher before the realization hits him, his expression slowly changing to one of horrified shock, and he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, his thoughts written on his face plain as day.  He’d lost her again.    


But before anyone can say anything further, a small voice pipes up from the living room, barely above a whisper.

“Am I in trouble?”

All of them turn to face Velma, who is now peeking up over the back of the couch.  Lucy heads for her and kneels down behind the couch to be at the little girl’s eye level  “No, honey, why would you be in trouble?”

Velma glances over at Wyatt fearfully.  “He was yelling.”

“Oh, he wasn’t yelling at...”  Lucy trails off mid sentence, her blood running cold as an awful thought passes through her mind. She takes Velma’s hand between both of hers and forces a smile.  “Sweetheart, I know your mom said not to talk to strangers, but this is really important. Can you tell me your real name?”

The girl swallows, even more nervous now that the entire group of adults is staring at her, and she ducks down further before mumbling, “Jessica.”

Wyatt is on his feet immediately and goes to kneel down next to Lucy.  “What’s your last name, kiddo?”   


She stares at Wyatt with wide, anxious eyes.  “Lowell. But mommy said that wasn’t my name anymore.”

Wyatt grips the top of the couch to steady himself.

“Wyatt?” Lucy says quietly.  “What’s wrong?”

“Lowell was her maiden name.”  He looks over at Lucy, and she can see the rage in his eyes.  “Those bastards tried to murder my wife all over again.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am REALLY sorry how long this one took, guys. I had a big bout of writer's block and had to just slowly chip away at this chapter (plus I wasn't quite sure the direction I wanted it to go until recently). Hopefully it makes up for the wait. Comments, as always, are appreciated and make my day.

Seated in the freshly charged Lifeboat, Lucy can’t keep her eyes off the little girl that they now know is Jessica seated on the common room sofa, watching a cartoon and giggling while Jiya stands across the room assembling a messy sandwich for her. Lucy’s chest feels tight, as her budding affection for the little girl fights wildly with the grief she felt every time she was near the woman she was before, another reminder of the heartbreak she’d been feeling for weeks.

She wrenches her eyes away from Jessica to face forward in her seat and sees Wyatt’s eyes are on her.  

“You okay?” he asks, not drawing any attention to the fact that she’d been staring at the living room with a panicked expression on her face.  

She smiles weakly.  “I’ll just...feel better when things are back to normal for us.”

“You and me both.”  He rubs a hand over his face.  “I don’t even know where to begin fixing the damage Rittenhouse did to Jessica’s timeline.  There’s a good chance I just lost her all over again.”

Rather unexpectedly, Lucy’s impulse is to lean forward against her seatbelt and squeeze his knee.  “We’ll figure this out. Don’t give up before we’ve even tried.”

Wyatt smiles, his eyes downcast, and gives her a small nod.  “Thanks, Luce.”

“Huh.  That’s...odd.”  They both turn to look at Rufus as he leans toward the monitor, squinting at the text displayed on the screen.  “It doesn’t want to lock on.”

Her stomach drops.  “Lock on to what?”

“The location.”  He rotates his chair around to face them.  “Just keeps saying ‘Location Not Available’.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Wyatt asks, unclipping his seatbelt so he can stand and lean over Rufus’s shoulder to examine the screen with him.

“Usually I only get that warning if I attempt to jump to a location that doesn’t have enough space to safely accommodate the Lifeboat,” Rufus tells them, baffled.  “But that makes no sense - we just jumped from there and we’re trying to jump back to a few minutes later, what could have-”

Heart pounding in her chest, Lucy frantically rips off her restraints and jumps out of her seat, nearly tripping as she exits the Lifeboat, and she takes the stairs two at a time so she can sprint over to her room.  She hears the team calling her name, no doubt confused, but ignores them as she yanks open the door to her bunk and rushes to the bookshelf on the far wall. She trails a hand lightly along the spines of the books until she finds the one she’s searching for - _Night of Terrors: An Eyewitness Account of the London Blitz._ She tugs it off the shelf and flips through it until she finds the map she’s searching for - a crude rendering of which sections of the city were destroyed - and scans the image until she locates their original landing location.

An entire quarter-mile radius shows as _100% destroyed in the blasts; 10% survival rate_.

Her shaking hands fumble and drop the book, and she sinks onto the end of Flynn’s bed just as Jiya, Rufus, and Wyatt appear in the doorway.

“Lucy?” Jiya takes a few steps into the room before she spots the book now laying cover side up on the floor.  She crouches to pick it up and turns it over, but can’t tell what about it has Lucy so distressed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s gone,” Lucy says, teetering on the edge of a feeling she can’t quite describe, a mix of horror and anger and grief, but the one notable thing absent is the one thing she’d always had left - hope.  “We can’t jump back because it’s gone.

“What do you mean?” Rufus asks, but Lucy can tell by the look on his face that deep down he already knows exactly what she’s implying, and just needs to hear it confirmed.

“We can’t go back.  If we jump back earlier, we’ll be on the same timeline as our past selves.  And we can’t jump back after that because…” She takes a shaky breath. “Because it was bombed after we left.  The whole building was destroyed. It’s just rubble now.”

Jiya looks up at Rufus, visibly distressed.  “But what does that mean for Flynn?”

“It means,” Lucy answers for him, “either Flynn got out of there and took shelter, or…”

She can’t bring herself to say it.  They don’t need her to.

“We still need to check.”  They all turn to Wyatt, the unexpected voice of reason.  “No man left behind.”

Before she can stop herself, Lucy blurts out, “But you hate Flynn.”

“Yeah, and I hated my CO back in basic training, but you bet your ass I would have risked life and limb for that sonuvabitch.”  Wyatt shrugs. “We’re a team. No man left behind.”

“How do we find him, though?”  Jiya flips idly through the pages of the book in her hands.  “London is huge, and it’s not like we can track him through cell signals or anything.”

“Lucy will find a way to locate him,” Wyatt says, the look on his face one of complete trust.  She wishes she had the same confidence in herself.

But she also knows what _he_ would say if he were here.  

_Only if we give up hope.  I know, somehow, someway, we will save the people we love._

She takes a steadying breath, then looks over at them.  “Jiya, Rufus, can you two run a trace on photos from that time period?  Anyone at all that looks even remotely like Flynn, within London and surrounding area if you can get it.”

“Got it.”  Jiya sets the book down on the bed next to Lucy and both pilots run back toward their computers.  Lucy turns her attention to Wyatt.

“How’s your knowledge of World War II?”

“Pretty good, actually.”  He gives her that shy smile, where she sees that hint of vulnerability that had drawn her to him in the first place, the man behind the uniform.

It somehow surprises her to realize that she feels nothing.

“Good.  I need to know the timeline of events.  When the bombs fell, when they paused. We need the longest window of time between bombings, or we risk losing the Lifeboat.”  

Wyatt nods, his face serious.  “Yes, ma’am.”

Still nothing.  Huh.

Lucy smiles and nods in return.  She closes the door once Wyatt has gone, then turns the lock - she does better with research when there are no interruptions.

She goes through the bookshelf carefully, tugging out various overviews of historical time periods or events, anything she has that is even remotely related to the Blitz.  She takes the resulting armful of books of varying lengths and dumps it on her bed, then rifles through it, willing inspiration to hit.

Assuming the siren had gone off right after they’d departed, Flynn likely would have had time to reach the nearest entrance to the metro.  Now, what all could go wrong while he did that?  

A bomb could - 

No, she’s not going to entertain that possibility, and shakes it out of her head.

What else, then?  His accent sounds distinctly Eastern European, not exactly a well-loved nation in that particular time and place in history.  There’s a chance he could be mistaken for German or Russian, and if that were the case, he’d likely be taken into custody.

She retrieves one of her books with a military focus and flips through it, not sure what she’s looking for and hoping she’ll just stumble onto something.  Everything between the two of them had always been so intrinsically linked - she’d taken him a journal that he’d in turn used to find her, and who knows how many times it had happened before that?  What things had changed between each handoff, inching them closer to (or further from) victory?

Who _was_ he to her?

She reads for an hour until her head starts to throb and the words start to blur together, at which point she sets the book off to the side and sighs.  No word from the others yet. She’d have to keep looking.

Break time.

She retrieves the half-drank bottle of red wine from the top of the bookshelf.  The glass from the night before is still filthy, so she dumps a coffee mug currently serving as a pen cup and pours it into that instead.  A smile crosses her face as she remembers the dozens of times she’d done this before, back in her twenties while staying at the university residence.

Just one thing missing…

She takes a quick sip, then sets the mug down and crouches to flip through the crate of records at her feet.  She reaches the end of the stack before she decides not to mess with a classic, and she retrieves her other Edith Piaf record, the one with her lesser-known songs _._   Slipping the vinyl disc out of its cover, she sets it down on the turntable and rests the needle gently against the edge.

She looks down at the cover in her hands, examining it as she waits for the music to start, and she flips it to look over the tracklisting - then stops short.

Was there always 15 tracks on this record?  She could have sworn it was only 14. And the name of the last one feels familiar for reasons she’s unsure of.  

She sets her mug down and heads back to the record player, moves the needle to what seems roughly the right spot, then sits down on the bed and retrieves her laptop.  The music starts as she types the name of the song into the search bar.

_“J'attendrai, le jour et la nuit, j'attendrai toujours, ton retour…”_

She discovers quickly that the song isn’t one of Piaf’s at all - rather, it was written for a chanteuse named Rina Ketty, years before the war had come to a head.  But Edith hadn’t been known for doing covers of other artists’ work - why was this an exception?

She clicks back to the search engine and looks up the song’s translated lyrics, and as she reads them her breath catches in her throat.

_“I will wait, day and night, I will wait always, your return…"_

After a further twenty minutes of scouring various webpages and online libraries that she still inexplicably has access to, she finally finds it.  The one mention in all of the literature of Edith performing _J’attendrai._

_She had been performing at various Parisien clubs at the time, boosting spirits with her patriotic anthems, but her most notable performance that year was the one at which she did a cover of “J’attendrai” - in this case, spontaneously while she was a patron at said club.  Sources at the time seemed to all agree she was performing for the benefit of a friend she’d made that night, as she indicated prior to performing the song that it was “for (her) dear friend, Flynn Preston, in the hopes that his love (would) find her way back to him.” The performance was so warmly received that Piaf went on to add the song to her rotation, recording a version of it shortly thereafter._

She can’t help but laugh.  There he was. Literal decades between them, but there he was - alive.

Her joy is short-lived, as she soon discovers that there’s next to nothing available on this so-called “Flynn Preston”, aside from that singular mention. Dead end.

She goes back to the excerpt about Edith’s club performance and manages to track down the date and rough location.  18th arrondissement. She’s not surprised - Edith had always seemed to have a soft spot for the 18th, ever since she made her first home there as a young woman.  Lucy can’t help smiling. Whoever said to never meet your heroes had been dead wrong - she would never get sick of this.

Well, it was as good a lead as any others.  She scribbles the date, time and location down on a scrap of paper, then exits her room in search of the rest of the team.  Jiya and Rufus are still huddled by the computers, and she jogs over to them, the paper held aloft in triumph.

“Found him,” she says as she reaches the foot of the stairs.  Both of them jump as she speaks, so engrossed in their task that they didn’t hear her approach.  Lucy holds out the piece of paper for Jiya to take, who then reads it over.

“Paris? How the hell-” 

“He went somewhere he knew I’d find him.”  She smiles - there it is. There’s that hope she thought she’d lost.  “He knew me well enough to know I’d figure out his message.”

Rufus laughs.  “That smart son of a bitch.”

* * *

Paris is unseasonably cold, and Lucy regrets the dress she’d opted for, beautiful but impractical.  Being that it was a jazz club they were heading to, she’d opted for a slightly less demure look, an off-shoulder swing dress that would be somewhat out of place for the moral sensibilities of the time - if they were anywhere else other than Montmartre.  

(She won’t admit to herself that she chose the dress in part because Flynn would be seeing her again after years apart.)

“Take my jacket,” Wyatt says, having noticed her shivering, and he drapes his blazer around her shoulders before she can decline.  She doesn’t turn down the offered warmth, nods in thanks to him, but says nothing more. It wasn’t much of an olive branch, but it was something.

After some time searching, they find the club tucked away down a narrow alley.  The music is audible even from the street, even from a considerable distance _down_ the street, and Lucy can’t hold back the smile that comes to her face the closer they get.

Lucy hears her voice the instant she pushes the door open, and it takes her breath away for a moment.  She comes to a dead stop as she sees her, dressed in her signature black, the Little Sparrow herself. Edith stands on a tiny stage, hands held delicately out to the side as she sings and a bright smile on her face as she looks down at the crowd.  She’s a born performer.

“Lucy, you, uh...you gonna move?”  Rufus is standing just behind her, waiting patiently as she blocks the doorway for the rest of them.  She quickly steps inside and out of the way, her eyes drifting back to Edith immediately. Her voice is beautiful.  _She’s_ beautiful.

Her eyes lower to scan the crowd as she remembers the reason they’re there.  It’s dark in the bar, difficult to see, and she blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust.  After a minute of searching the faces around her, she sees a man from behind, his broad frame dwarfing the chair he’s seated in, and her breath catches.  She can’t see his face, can only see a head of dark hair with streaks of grey at the temple. Only hours for her, it had to have been roughly four years that Flynn had spent in the past, making him now 47.

Her heart aches for him.  He’d spent some of the worst years in recent history alone, waiting for a rescue that never came.

She finds her feet as Edith finishes her song and bows, the crowd immediately applauding and cheering emphatically, with most rising to their feet for a standing ovation.  But Lucy’s attention is fully off Edith now, focused on the only man who stays seated, one hand resting on the table, not applauding with the rest of them. She weaves between tables and patrons as quiet and unobtrusive as she can manage.  She has no idea if Rufus and Wyatt are still following her or not, and frankly doesn’t care either way.

She rests a hand on his shoulder and is about to say his name when he snatches her wrist with his opposite hand.  He looks up sharply, clearly ready to dispatch whatever threat had approached him, but his eyes widen as he sees her face and he releases her hand immediately.

“Lucy?”  His voice is hoarse, no doubt thanks to the cigarette burning in the ashtray before him, and the lines of his face are more pronounced, evidence of the rough life he’d undoubtedly had the past 4 years.

“Garcia,” she breathes, slipping into the chair next to him.  His hand is now resting on the table, and she gently places her own on his.  He flinches at the touch, but almost immediately grasps her hand in return.

“How did you find me?”

It occurs to her that this would be well before Edith decided to add the song to her catalogue, which would be news to Flynn at this point.  “I found a message you left, whether you meant to or not.”

He finally smiles, but it only serves to make him look even more tired.  “You’re a welcome sight after all these years. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t come sooner.  We tried to go back-”

“-and you couldn’t,” Flynn finishes, shaking his head.  “The sirens started the moment the Lifeboat jumped. I made it to shelter, but the landing site was buried beneath four collapsed rowhouses.”  He looks down at his hand, still holding hers. “I didn’t know where to go after that. I tried to leave messages here and there, where I could think of ways to do so, but eventually I realized I needed to get back to living a real life while I waited.”

“What did you do?”

Flynn smiles again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes.  “The only thing I knew how to do. Fought the bad guys.”

Her eyes then drift over to his side, and she finally notices the jacket hanging loose there, sleeve pinned in half.  Flynn traces her line of sight and shifts self-consciously away as he realizes she’s staring at his missing arm.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t come away unscathed this time.”

Her face is stricken.  “Garcia, I’m so sorry, I never meant to leave you here-”

“And you didn’t, _ljubavi_.  I chose to stay.  I chose to fight. I have only myself to blame for this.”

Lucy lifts his hand in both of hers and presses a kiss to his palm.  His eyes drift closed at her touch, and she takes a moment to examine his face, her eyes tracing the new scars marking his skin.  He looks weary, old before his time, as if he’s given up.

She drops his hand and straightens in her seat.  “No.”

His eyes open.  “No?” he repeats, confused.

“No man left behind,” she says, borrowing a page from Wyatt’s playbook.  “We’re going back for you.”

His brow furrows.  “What do you mean?”

“Where did you go?  After the wave of bombs that destroyed the landing site, where did you go?”

The realization of what she’s implying dawns on him and he too sits up straighter in his chair.  “I was captured. They thought I might be working with the Germans. I didn’t have any identification papers so I couldn’t prove otherwise.”

“Where did they take you?” She waves Wyatt and Rufus over.  The two men, previously hovering at the side of the room to give Lucy some privacy, quickly rush over at her gesture, and they seat themselves in the other two chairs surrounding Flynn’s table.  Whether out of politeness or because they genuinely don’t notice, neither man sees fit to comment on the state that Flynn is in.

“It was one of the military outposts on the edge of the city.  An RAF base, to the south, I think.”

Wyatt nods.  “Croydon airfield, I’m guessing.”

“How long were you at Croydon?  A day? A few days?”

“At least a week.  They let me go once it was clear I didn’t know anything.  I developed a fever thanks to injuries sustained during ‘questioning’ - found somewhere to stay until it subsided.”

“Do you remember where?”

“A small town, not far away.”  He thinks for a moment. “Purley, I think it was.”

“Purley, one week later. Okay, we can work with that.”  She nods, committing the information to memory. “What about the inn?”

“The one detail I can’t recall, unfortunately.  I was in a delirious state by the time I stumbled in, and it never occurred to me to remember the place for future reference.”

She deflates a bit - it wouldn’t be a quick and easy task to find him, then.  Still, they’d faced roadblocks more insurmountable than this before. “We’ll figure it out.”  She looks over at Rufus and Wyatt. “I’ll meet you back at the Lifeboat.” Wyatt looks close to protesting, but sees the look on her face and stays silent as he and Rufus vacate the table.

Left alone, Lucy turns back to Flynn.  “You know what happens if we succeed. This life will disappear.”  She levels her gaze at him. “Including anyone you’ve met along the way.  So if you have…” She tucks her hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious.  “If you met anyone. You won’t remember them, and they won’t remember you.”

He shakes his head.  “ _Moja draga_ , you know it’s always been you.”

She bites her lip.  Four years alone. Four years without her.  Four years waiting for her to return. Four years never having given up hope.

Before she knows what she’s doing, Lucy leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a brief moment of bravery (or stupidity, she isn’t yet sure which).  As she moves to pull away, Flynn tilts his head slightly to the side and catches her lips against his, lifting his hand to cup her cheek, and rather than jerk away, she stops to return the kiss, fully and without hesitation.  The tension melts out of him, and he strokes his thumb against her temple as he leans back.

“I’ve missed you,” Flynn whispers.

Lucy smiles.  “Not as much as I’ve missed you,” she says, still not stopping to consider the implication of her words and actions.  

Flynn smiles again, this time genuine.  “It can’t have been more than a few hours for you-”

“That’s a few hours too long.”  She rests both hands on his knees, feeling emboldened.  “Flynn, I-”

He shakes his head to stop her.  “Not now, Lucy. Not yet. Go back, find me.  Then we’ll talk.”

She hesitates - what if she never got another chance to say it? - but reluctantly nods.  “Okay. I’ll hold you to that.”

Both of them rise from the table, Flynn adjusting his jacket to sit properly on his right shoulder so it doesn’t slip off, and Lucy does up the first button for him to keep it in place.  They walk together toward the bar’s exit and step outside, the ambient noise fading immediately as Flynn closes the door behind them.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her, gently running the back of his fingers down her bare arm.  “If things go wrong, if I never see you again, I will cherish this memory of you the rest of my life.”

She lifts her chin, determined.  “If this doesn’t work and I don’t find you, I’m not giving up.  I’ll look as long as it takes.”

“No, Lucy, you shouldn’t-”

“You should know this by now, Garcia.  I don’t give up easily. And we’ve found each other so many times throughout history - this will be no different.”

“But Rittenhouse-”

“They can go to hell.  You...you’re more important.”

He seems speechless at that, and lowers his gaze to the ground rather than respond.  Finally, he whispers, “I have never deserved a woman like you, Lucy Preston.”

“Utter bullshit.  But...thank you.”  

They smile at each other once more, then Lucy turns to leave.  Flynn catches her by her hand before she can pull away and gathers her against him, his arm curled around her shoulders to hold her close.  She closes her eyes a moment and revels in the feeling of his arm wrapped tightly around her, the smell of him, the feel of his chest moving with every breath and the steady sound of his heart beating.  She wishes she could stay close, bring him with her, anything to ensure he didn’t leave her life again...but she knows he wouldn’t want this existence, not if it could be avoided. 

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispers, and then she pulls away and rushes down the street without looking back, not wanting him to see the fear in her eyes.  He says nothing, and when she pauses to glance back before turning the corner, he’s already gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated to Daiji, who gave me a lot of inspiration to work with. ;)

Lucy doesn’t hear Rufus the first time he says her name.  The image of Flynn standing outside the bar in Paris is burned into her memory like her very own Ghost of Christmas Future, and the added pressure of knowing that she only has one shot at this lead isn’t helping much either.

If they didn’t find him now, they’d have no way of tracking him down again, at least not easily, and possibly not at all, and the idea of that has her gripping her skirt in one hand to stay calm. She has a tenuous grasp on him through history, a trail of breadcrumbs to follow that would hopefully lead to the man himself, just as they’d left him in London only hours ago.  Days for him, yes, but that was a helluva lot better than how he fared 4 years from now.

“Lucy!”

She jumps as Rufus repeats her name, and forces the hand gripping her skirt to relax.  “Sorry, I don’t know where my head is. What is it?”

“You’re heading the wrong way.”

Lucy glances up at the sign above her and sees Rufus is right, and she rushes over to join the two men as they head down the other fork in the road.  They head south through Croydon, most of the streets there still mostly, if not fully, intact. Most of the buildings look the same, making it all the more difficult to know if they’re on the right track.  No wonder she was getting lost.

They’ve made it halfway to Purley by the time it starts to rain, and they have no choice but to push forward despite the downpour.  They take cover once they finally reach the town itself, all of them huddled in a shop doorway to keep dry, and Lucy frowns as she looks down at the hem of her dress and her shoes - both spattered with mud kicked up when they ran for shelter.  At least she’d had a chance to change out of the classy number she’d been wearing in Paris into a more sensible-for-wartime dress - she can only imagine what the innkeepers of Purley would have said to someone dolled up to the nines and coated in mud showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the night raving about some man she’s looking for.

Not that it would be out of place.  This was wartime England. Most people were desperately looking for someone they’d lost, and most didn’t have the clues she did to hunt them down.

“Uh, guys,” Rufus says, nodding to the street ahead of them, “I found an inn.”

Lucy and Wyatt turn and see no less than 10 signs for inns hanging from storefronts, with more extending further down the street.

“Christ, this could take all night.”  Wyatt stares down the street, hands on his hips, clearly debating their next steps.  Then he turns back to them. “Lucy, why don’t you handle the boarding houses. I’ll take the large hotels since there probably aren’t that many.  Rufus, you head to the bar and ask around. We’ll touch base back here in-” He glances at his watch. “-two hours.”

Rufus looks less than enthused about the plan.  “It’s a good thing I just _love_ splitting up.  Always turns out great for me.”  

Lucy squeezes his arm.  “For what it’s worth, it was mostly the American GIs who treated people of color horribly in the 40’s.  The average British citizen was actually reasonably welcoming considering the time period, and this town is probably enough out of the way that you won’t stand out or get too much grief.  Hopefully.”

“Your historical insight is reassuring as usual,” Rufus says dryly before tugging the collar on his jacket up and heading back out into the now-drizzling rain.

Wyatt turns to Lucy.  “Listen, if you find him first, just stay put until two hours from now.  It’s not a good idea for you guys to be out in the open alone if Flynn can’t protect you both.”

“Why wouldn’t he be able to protect us?”

“It’s like he said - the one in Paris, I mean.  His interrogation injuries had him laid up in bed for days.  I doubt he can even hold a gun right now, let alone aim it. Hell, he probably can’t even throw a punch.”

She hadn’t considered that.  “Fine. See you in two hours.”

It proves more difficult to tell which homes are boarding houses and which are private residences, and so Lucy ends up knocking on several doors where the annoyed occupants give her only a split-second to apologize for waking them before they slam it in her face once more.  After repeating this several times in a row, she wanders further down the street and examines each building intently, trying to find some sort of markings that would make one of them stand out in particular.

_Come on, Garcia, give me a sign here._

The answer to her prayer is a little more literal than expected, as Lucy finally spots a worn sign on a door that grabs her attention - _The Leaky Lifeboat Inn_.

 _What a terrible name_.  She tugs the door open and steps into the warm, dry...attempt at a lobby.  It’s little more than a desk in the corner of a small room, with a plump older woman seated on a stool behind it and busy knitting by lamplight.  She looks up sharply as Lucy enters, and makes no attempt to hide her disdain as she looks her over.

“Hello,” Lucy says as brightly as she can manage under the circumstances, and the woman arches an eyebrow in return.

“Can I help you, miss?”  

“I hope so.  I’m looking for someone.”  Lucy closes the door behind her, casting the room back into dim shadow.  No wonder the old lady needed glasses. “Did a man come here seeking lodging?” 

She gets a vaguely annoyed look in response.  “You’ll have to be more specific, love. Lots of men around these parts nowadays.”  She peers at Lucy over her glasses. “Unless you’re looking for any old man, in which case I should mention that this establishment doesn’t cater to _that_ sort of business.”

It takes Lucy a second to realize the woman is implying she’s a prostitute.

She clears her throat awkwardly.  “No, no, I’m looking for a specific one.” She forces her tone to stay cheerful in spite of the way the woman is eyeing her. “A tall one.  Really, really tall. He has an accent. Yugoslavian.”

The clerk’s annoyed expression fades immediately.  “Who would be inquiring, miss?”

“If you’re asking that, it must mean he’s here.”  Lucy takes a step closer to the desk, now hopeful.  “Please. I’m...someone who cares about him, dearly.”

“You must be the wife then.”

Lucy doesn’t answer her either way.  “Please.”

The clerk sighs.  “Would his name be Flynn, then?”

Her heart skips a beat.  “Yes! Yes, that’s him. Is he...is he here?”

“Aye, he is, but…well.  Perhaps you’d best just see him for yourself.”  She retrieves a key from the rack behind her. “He’s paid up for a week, but hasn’t been looking too well.  I’d have called for the doctor but they’ve all left the area, gone where they’re needed - London, the frontlines, either way, definitely not Purley.”  

She nods for Lucy to follow her as she heads down a hall to the left of the desk and makes her way up a steep set of stairs.  Lucy has to grip her dress with one hand and the banister with the other to keep herself upright as she follows.  

“He’s been managing to eat a little, but not enough.  I’ve drawn him cold baths, just to get that awful temperature down, but I’ve no idea if the man used them or not.  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

“Yes, that certainly does sound like my-”

She cuts herself off before she can say husband, just as the woman finally stops in front of a door at the end of the hall. 

“I’d advise keeping your distance, dear,” the woman tells Lucy as she turns the key in the lock.  “The fever has him in and out of consciousness. I’ve had a few close calls where he took a swing at me.”

That _definitely_ sounded like Flynn.

Lucy nods to her in thanks, then closes the door behind her and turns to examine her surroundings.  A light above the stained sink the corner flickers occasionally, indicating the power in these outskirts towns is still spotty, and she can see the outline of a clawfoot tub near the sink, the water still sitting undisturbed.  

The rest of the room is dark, and just as Lucy’s eyes finally adjust she hears a low moan from the bed in the corner.

A prone form lies stretched across the too-short mattress with his back to her, half tangled up in the sheets and shivering every so often.  She can see a sheen of sweat all across his skin and dripping down his shoulders, pasting his undershirt to his back.  

“Garcia,” she whispers, her voice feeling loud in the silence.  

Flynn reacts with a surprising degree of speed, rolling over to face her before she’s finished saying his name.  She can see his eyes are alert but pupils fully dilated, giving the distinct impression that he’s looking straight through her.  She can tell from his face that he doesn’t see her, not really. He’s no doubt too blinded by his ghosts.

Flynn struggles to focus on Lucy as she approaches, and she can see him breathing faster the closer she gets, until he finally fumbles for the night table with one hand, searching for the weapon he always kept close when he slept.  She’s relieved to note he apparently had enough foresight not to leave a loaded handgun where he might grab it in a state of delirium. But she also hasn’t forgotten the innkeeper's warning about his lethal right hook, and she’s well aware he doesn’t need a gun to kill her - though in his current state he looks like he couldn’t even make a fist, let alone swing it at her.

Finally giving up on his search for a weapon, Flynn rolls onto his back and takes a steady, labored breath with his eyes closed, looking somewhere between ready to vomit and being too exhausted to actually do so.

“Garcia?” she says again, a bit louder, her voice soft as if she’s soothing a wild animal.

He opens his eyes again, and this time he manages to focus somewhat on her, though there’s no sign of recognition on his face.

“Lorena?”

It hits her like a punch to the stomach, but she immediately buries the feeling of…what, betrayal?  Jealousy? Whatever it is, she knows she has no right to it. “No, Garcia, Lorena is...she’s still gone.”

He looks confused, and her heart twists further.

“It’s Lucy. I’ve come to take you home.”

She doesn’t get another word out, as he abruptly throws aside the sheets and swings his legs around so he can stand. 

“Woah, hey, don’t do that!”  Panicked, Lucy rushes forward, her hands out to ease his shoulders back down to the bed as she momentarily forgets his delirious mental state.

He seizes her wrists before she can touch him and gets to his feet in one smooth motion, trapping her directly in front of him and absolutely towering in a way that makes her feel small and afraid.  He no longer feels like _her_ Garcia; instead, he feels more like the Flynn she remembers from before, the one who seized her by the neck and tossed her aside like she weighed nothing; the one who nearly crushed her wrist as he dragged her forcibly back to the Mothership; the one who watched impassively as Nazis held a gun to her head and threatened to pull the trigger.

He lets go of her arms, only to grip the front of her dress instead, and pins her roughly against the wall.  “Where the hell is my wife?”

She shoves him back from her, and is surprised at how effective it is, as he lets her go and stumbles a few steps away, clearly so weak from the fever that all this bluster is for show.  He steadies himself in an attempt to stay upright, breathing heavily despite having barely moved, and lasts only a few seconds before he sinks down to his knees, palms pressed into the floorboards ahead of him in an attempt to stay upright.

She takes a hesitant step forward, then kneels down, still several feet away from him to be safe.  “Garcia, it’s Lucy. You’re sick.”

“Why are you doing this?”  He’s clearly not hearing what she’s saying, but the tone of his voice takes her off guard.  He’s pleading with her - or whoever he sees in place of her. “I swear, I have no backup copies of the data, nobody else knows.”

“I’m here to help you.”  She shuffles forward slightly, slowly so as not to spook him.  When he doesn’t respond, she slides closer still, until they’re nearly face to face.  “You’re sick. You can’t see me, but I’m here. Please, Flynn.”

“Do what you want with me,” he pleads softly, “but leave my daughter out of this.”

Lucy freezes in place.

“She’s innocent.  I’ll go with you, just...please.”

He looks utterly broken. Lucy places her hand over his on the floor, and when he doesn’t pull away, trails her hand up his forearm gently.  She sees his eyes flutter slightly, the smallest spark of recognition there at her touch, and he looks directly at her face, clearly struggling to focus.

“Lucy?” 

She makes a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh and nods.  He lifts his hands and cups her face, his eyes tracing her features, and then wraps his arms around her to pull her against him in a gripping hug.  Lucy melts into his embrace, feeling suddenly at peace, and she can feel him tuck his head down against her neck.  

Now that she’s touching him directly she can feel how much his whole body is burning up from fever.  “Garcia, you’re on fire. Let me help you.”

Seemingly beyond talking now that he’d recognized her and exerted the last of his energy, Flynn just nods against her shoulder.  Lucy carefully eases herself out of his arms so she can instead slip under one of them to help him to his feet. “Okay. On three.”

Somehow she manages to get him on his feet, and is about to help him back to the bed when she notices the untouched bath once more.  If the water had been an ice bath earlier as the innkeeper claimed (which she already knows wouldn’t help), then it would no doubt have cooled at least to room temperature by this point.

“Let's get you in the tub, Flynn,” Lucy grunts as she shifts his arm on her shoulders and starts slowly walking them toward it.  Flynn manages to support most of his own weight, but sways with every step, and once they reach the bath he has to lean down and grip the edge of it to steady himself.

Lucy helps him tug the damp undershirt over his head, and she lays it over the back of a nearby chair to dry before returning her attention undressing him.  Despite the circumstances, she can’t help but look him over, and sees a wicked scar trailing down the center of his abdomen, with several other scars marking his skin all over.  The sheer amount of injuries he sustained over the years shocks her, and yet she knows somehow that none of his scars are as painful as the one left on his heart from all of his loss.

She strips off his trousers and decides he’s undressed enough to get his temperature down, and crosses back to the opposite side of the tub from him.  “Okay, put your hands on my shoulders, and put in one leg at a time.” Lucy leans forward, struggling to steady him, and they sway as she loses her balance under his weight.  “Wait, hang on.”  

Flynn leans back on the edge of the tub again while Lucy quickly strips out of her dress and shoes, and then she steps into the water herself so she has a steadier foundation to support him.  Taking it slow, she’s able to help Flynn step into the water, and eases him down into a sitting position. After a moment’s debate, Lucy sits as well and slides back in the tub, then gently tugs Flynn’s arms.  “Lay back.”

Too weak to protest - possibly too ill to even know what’s going on - Flynn complies, resting back against Lucy’s chest.  Though the clawfoot tub was much longer and deeper than the modern tubs they were used to, Flynn’s knees still have to bend to accommodate the rest of his body, which is made only worse by Lucy taking up space behind him.  But despite the discomfort she’s sure he’s feeling, Flynn’s face is calm as he lays his head against her shoulder.  

They sit in silence for some time, Flynn resting his eyes while Lucy dips a washcloth into the tepid water and dabs it against his skin.  She can feel the heat in his skin dissipating, the lukewarm water doing it’s job.

“How did you find me?” he asks, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Lucy dips her hand into the water and then runs her wet fingers through the hair on his forehead to push it back out of his face.  She considers the question while she runs her fingers through his hair again, and she can feel him relaxing against her further, letting go of the tension he’s no doubt been carrying around for days.

“You, actually,” she replies, cupping water in her hand to slowly pour over his shoulders where they don’t reach the water.  “I got a message from you - or the 47-year-old version of you, technically, so you may want to thank that guy later.”

He smiles. “Suggestion noted.”

Lucy rests her temple against his and wraps both arms around him, swaying gently side to side.  “You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

“Didn’t have many options.”

She wants to protest, but she knows he’s right..

“Did you figure out who she was?” he asks, pausing to take a breath before adding, “The girl?”

“Yeah, we did.”  She’d forgotten he wasn’t around for that particular revelation.  “It’s...complicated.”

He snorts softly.  “When is it not?”

He had a point.  “Forget all that,” she says, eager to change the subject for the time being, “why exactly did you not go see a doctor?”

“I was sick even before they let me go.  Spent days in a cold, wet cell. They took my shoes and jacket.”

The image of Flynn curled up in a cell, barefoot and shivering, makes her tighten her hold on him a fraction.

“Quick thinking, your choice of lodgings.”

He grins.  “I had wondered if you would spot that clue.”

“Bit heavy-handed.  It was hard to miss.”

“I forget who I’m dealing with, apparently.”

Beneath the water, Lucy can feel Flynn rest one of his hands on her bare thigh, his thumb stroking the skin just above her knee.  She can’t help a small shiver that runs through her, which gets another quiet chuckle out of Flynn.

“And where are the other two?”

“Checking other hotels.  We agreed to meet up in two hours.”

“They’re helping you look for me too?” Flynn asks, surprised.

“Of course.  You thought they’d just leave you to rot in the past?”

“They’ve made no secret of their dislike for me.”

“I think they’ve begun to have a change of heart.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I think they noticed how…”  _How I am when I’m around you.  How happy you’ve made me. How much I-_  “...how much you’ve been trying to make peace.”  It’s not what she wanted to say, not by a longshot, but she’s smart enough to know there’s a time and place for those conversations, and clutching a violently ill Flynn in a 1940s ice bath is not it.

“I don’t know that I’d quite put it that way.”  He tilts his head to look up at her. “I still don’t like Wyatt.”

She laughs.  “I don’t expect that to ever change.”

Flynn is still looking at her as her laugh trails off, the hint of a smile on his face.  “Something seems different with you, Lucy, but I can’t quite pinpoint what.”

Lucy looks back at him, her eyes drifting over his face and resting just a second too long on his slightly-parted lips.  Not the time or place. She knows that.  

Then she decides _to hell with it_ , leans down, and presses her lips to his.

They’d kissed a handful of times prior to this, usually in desperation or fear, but this time feels different.  She’s nervous, and has no idea why, and kisses him deeper in an attempt to hush her self-doubt. Flynn returns the kiss without hesitation, not even pausing to question what she’s doing.  Eventually he breaks the kiss so that he can twist around to face her, bracing one arm against the back of the tub to keep himself steady as he kisses her again, more hungry than before. Lucy rests her head back against his arm, enjoying the weight of his body against hers, and Flynn’s other hand ghosts over her side, pulling her closer.  Water sloshes over the edge of the tub thanks to the sudden increase in activity, but they ignore it, too caught up in their current activities to care.

Flynn pulls away so he can lean down and kiss her neck instead, and she laughs softly and gives him a half-hearted push away.  “Garcia, you’re sick, and we need to go.”

“Feeling much better,” he murmurs against her neck.  “And you said 2 hours.”

Why did men have to be so similar?  “It’s more like half an hour now, and we still need to get dressed and get back to the meeting point.”

He finally leans back, sighing, then nods.

She’s able to get him back out of the bath much easier than she got him into it, and she retrieves a towel from a nearby shelf - the only towel, apparently - and wraps it around Flynn to dry him off.  Once he’s mostly dry, she gives herself a quick once-over with the same damp towel, then gathers her dress from where she’d laid it aside. She catches the tail end of Flynn staring at her, and the intensity in his eyes causes an uncomfortable flutter in her stomach.

Flynn slumps into a chair and waits as Lucy retrieves each piece of his outfit - pants from the floor, socks, suspenders and dress shirt from the end of the bed.  It’s all filthy, and the pants are somewhat torn at the knees, but would have to do at least to get him home.

Lucy helps Flynn dress, doing up zippers and buttons as required.  “Without your jacket we have nowhere to hide your gun.”

“Leave it behind.”

Lucy pauses in buttoning his shirt and looks at him.  “You’re not serious.”

“It’s only a few decades off.  And who knows - by the time it’s found, maybe it won’t be out of place.”

She wants to argue further, but can’t think of anywhere to hide the gun where it won’t be seen.  She wouldn’t be able to fire it while supporting him anyway, and Flynn is already swaying in his seat - there’s no way he’d be able to fire a gun in his current state.  As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, Wyatt was right in his assessment of the situation.

“Where are your shoes?”

“They took them, remember?”

“What?  They _kept_ them?!”  

Flynn nods.

“How did you get here, then?”

“In my socks.”

“No wonder you’re so sick.  Why didn’t you stop to find shoes?”

He shrugs.  “These people are struggling already.  It felt wrong to take them. And no shops open thanks to the bombardment in London.  Didn’t want to loot.”

It was a wonderful sentiment, as well as an idiotic one, which is very on brand for Flynn.  She rolls her eyes as she eases him down the steep stairs, and the innkeeper pauses in her knitting when they reach the main floor.  

“Feeling better then, Mr. Flynn?”

“Not particularly, Mrs. Davies, but my wife has decided I’ll recover quicker if I’m home.” 

“Wives are usually right.”  She offers him a brief, thin smile.  “Take care. Try to stay out of the rain.”

They make their way up the street at a slow pace that Flynn can manage, and are able to track down the meeting spot just as Wyatt also reappears down another street.  Rufus is already hovering in the doorway, tapping a hand against his leg impatiently, when he spots Lucy and Flynn shuffling toward him, and he rushes forward to take Flynn’s other arm before Lucy collapses under his weight.

“Uh, Flynn?  Where are your shoes?”

“Lost them,” Flynn manages to mutter in response as he leans against the wall for support.

“And it didn’t occur to you to get a new pair?”

“I had somewhat higher priorities, _Rufus_.”

Wyatt reaches them before further scolding can take place (scolding that Rufus is clearly enjoying), but stops short a few feet away, staring at the ground.  

“Flynn, where the hell are your shoes?”

* * *

When they emerge from the Lifeboat with Flynn, there’s a collective sigh of relief from the bunker inhabitants who had stayed behind.  Rufus and Wyatt help Flynn down the stairs with an arm around each of their shoulders, with Lucy following close behind them. She’s about to follow them as they make their way toward her and Flynn’s bunk when Denise calls her over.

“How is he?” she asks, voice gentle.

“He has an infection, but his fever broke long enough to get him home unscathed.  You should probably bring a doctor in before he goes downhill again.”

“I’ll make some calls.”  Denise retrieves her phone from her pocket and is about to dial when Lucy stops her.

“Before you do that - what happened with Jessica?”

Denise glances over at Jiya.  “You can give her a rundown?”

Jiya nods, and hops down from the computer platform to join Lucy as Denise departs.  “We talked with her a bit more, Lucy, and there’s something you should probably know.”

Lucy’s stomach sinks.  “What is it?”

“The woman she kept referring to as her ‘mama’ - we don’t think it’s actually her mother.”  Jiya shoves her hands into her pockets, clearly uncomfortable. “We think it might be...your mom, actually.”

Lucy blinks, the room suddenly spinning.  “What?”

“She seems to think she has two mommies.  There’s her first mom, her actual mom, that she doesn’t seem to remember very clearly.  Then there’s her current mother, who she apparently calls ‘momma Carol’.”

Lucy sways and puts a hand on the side of the computer console to steady herself.  “So, what, my mother...kidnapped her?”

“Yes, and no.”  Jiya guides her to the kitchen and helps her into one of the chairs there.  “It looks like Rittenhouse may have helped the family with a medical issue. Jessica had an older brother whose leukemia came close to killing him, but at the last second they attempted a new breakthrough treatment, and it worked.  Saved the kid’s life. But it looks like the trade-off was sending their young daughter away with Rittenhouse. They...never saw her again.”

Lucy stares at her.  Just when she thought her mother couldn’t get any worse, she managed to break her heart even further.  “So my mom kidnapped her, only to dump her in the 40s to die? Why?”

“We don’t know for sure.  Maybe as bait? Or there’s a chance they just wanted her...dealt with, in general.  Who knows what their motivations are.”

She wants to believe it’s a farfetched theory, that her mother would never do such a thing, but after recent events, she isn’t so sure.  “But...why target Jessica?”

“We haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“What are our next steps, then?”

“I’ve got half a plan, but…”  Jiya hesitates. “It’s a bit of a longshot.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“True.”  She smiles.  “I think, if we can re-insert Jessica back into her timeline at the right place, there’s a chance her life won’t change too much for the worse.”

“What’s to stop Rittenhouse from coming back for her again?”

“Agent Christopher suggested a new identity.”

“But...what about her parents?”

“We don’t have enough resources in 1983 to be able to hide the whole family.  In theory if we hide Jessica, they have no reason to go after the rest of the family.”  At Lucy’s uncomfortable expression, she adds, “Not foster care. We figured a closed adoption would be the best idea.  She still grows up with a loving home, and hopefully one day can track down her birth parents again if she wants, and avoids Rittenhouse attempting to kill her, or worse.”

The moral complications aside, the plan is sound.  “I don’t imagine Wyatt is going to take this well.”

“Yeah, well, you’re all really going to hate the next part.  You were all born in ‘83 or earlier, so none of you can take her back.  Only one person can.”

Lucy’s eyes widen.  “We can’t send you back alone.  You haven’t time travelled since your seizures started, you’ve never piloted alone, and you’d have no backup-”

Jiya raises a hand to cut her off.  “Yeah, we discussed the numerous downsides.  But it’s our best option, and if I’m careful I won’t need any backup.  Plus it...spares Wyatt.”

She hadn’t even thought about that part.  Staying in the present while Jiya took Jessica to the past, there was a real chance that Wyatt would never meet Jessica, would forget he was ever married.  And none of them, save Jiya, would know anything had changed.

“You have to talk to Wyatt first.  He deserves that much.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and wait for Agent Christopher on that one.”  Jiya nudges Lucy toward her room. “Now get out of here and check on your husband.”

* * *

After a long, cleansing shower and a granola bar to settle her stomach, Lucy heads back to their shared room.  Flynn is awake, seated on the edge of his bed in his pajamas with a book on his lap. The freshest of his wounds are patched up and overall he looks much better than he had hours before.  He looks up from his book as Lucy enters and smiles.

“You’re looking much better,” she says as she closes the door behind her and locks it, not wanting them to be disturbed.  Flynn sets his book aside as she approaches, and the open pages catch her eye. It’s the same photo album she’d been looking at a few days prior.

“Saw the doctor.  Just a run of the mill infection, as expected.  Antibiotics and bed rest. Again.”

It felt like forever ago she’d left a single woman and returned a wife.  It was only a few days ago, and yet everything felt different somehow.

Lucy sits on the edge of her bed opposite Flynn.  “Can we talk?”

Flynn nods.  “Of course. What is it?”

She hesitates, then asks, “Are you still in love with me?”

Flynn’s cheeks grow redder and looks away from her.  “That’s a complicated question to answer.”

“Complicated how?”

His eyes are drawn back to the book laying next to him, and he sighs.  “Complicated because you’ve made it clear you don’t want to be associated with...your prior iteration.”

“And if I didn’t mind it?  What would your answer be?”

He’s silent for some time, clearly debating how to answer.  Lucy waits without speaking, giving him time to think while she ignores her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

Finally, Flynn gets to his feet and crosses the space between them to seat himself next to her instead.  He takes one of her hands and holds it in his lap.

“You have to understand, Lucy...there is no ‘you’ or ‘her’ to me.  There never was. I’ve known so many versions of you at this point that I no longer see a difference. Your inner thoughts were my guide for years, getting me through my darkest moments.  You were a living legend in my eyes by the time you first met me.”

She can’t help but scoff at that.  “Hardly.”

“Don’t do that, _ljubavi_.  You should see yourself through my eyes.  You’d be amazed.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He smiles.  “I will love you until my dying breath, Lucy, in this universe and any others we might stumble into.”

The only response Lucy can manage is a soft, “Oh.”

“Is it my turn for a question, now?”

She nods.

Flynn looks suddenly nervous and can’t meet her eyes.  “Has anything changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Between us.  Do you feel any different about...all of this?”  

Lucy looks at their surroundings, taking in everything that had been so different before and yet now felt so familiar.  The photos in the album on his bed. Her books mixed up with his. Her crate of records that promised many more days of dancing ahead.

It feels like home.

“I do.”

Her voice is so quiet he nearly doesn’t catch her reply.  “You...do feel differently?”

Lucy nods, trying to gather her thoughts so her words won’t come out in a jumble.  “I don’t know how we got into this in the first place, I wasn’t there for any of it, but maybe that doesn’t matter.”

He looks crestfallen.  “Doesn’t matter?”  

“No, that came out wrong.”  She sighs. “I mean, maybe it doesn’t matter, because….”  She hesitates, then takes in a deep, measured breath. “Because I love you.  _Me._   Whoever that Lucy was, I’m sure we were similar, but she left when I took her place, and I don’t have any of her memories, but...these past few days have shown me how unequivocally devoted you were to her, and I’ve felt it too.  When you look at me, I feel like I could take on the world. When you touch me, it’s like sparks under my skin. You make me feel alive, Garcia. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you, however long or short it is. I want to dance to Edith Piaf in the evenings, to explore the world and history together, to lie in your arms every night and feel that peace of knowing I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.  You’re it for me. You’re...my home.”

The silence stretches on long enough that Lucy starts to feel nervous, and his stunned expression isn’t helping things.  “Garcia, please say something.”

He finally smiles, putting her at ease, and squeezes her hand.  “Welcome home.”

Oh.  Oh, her heart feels like it might burst in her chest.  She slides closer and tilts her head up to kiss him, and this time it’s deeper, more meaningful, not like any kiss she’s ever had before.  There’s so much more behind it than just a physical need. She loves him - the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he kisses her like he’s been doing it his whole life, like he knows exactly what she wants and needs.

They shed their clothes soon after and she discovers just how well he knows her.  Making love to him is new but familiar, and he openly worships every inch of her, eagerly demonstrating his adoration again and again, until finally they both lay spent.  Flynn’s head rests on Lucy’s chest as they catch their breath, his eyes closed while she absentmindedly runs her fingers through his hair that she’s beginning to love so much.

“I think it’s my turn for a question.”  She gets only a soft grunt of acknowledgment from him and smiles.  “This is an easy one, I hope.”

“Mm?”

“Will you marry me?”

Flynn lifts his head to look at her.  “I think I beat you to the punch on that one.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He leans up on one elbow.  “You’re serious?”

She nods.

“Well, then I have great news for you.”  

She swats his arm lightly.  “Flynn, answer the damn question!”

“It’s a silly question.  You know the answer.”

“I want you to say it.”

He sits up fully and reaches to unclasp the chain still hanging around his neck, then lets the ring slide off into his palm before he lifts her left hand and slips it onto her finger.

“Always, Lucy.  Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck around to read this little fic. It started off as a small idea and grew into a much bigger one, and I'm thrilled at how many people thought it was an idea worth reading about. Your comments were (and continue to be) a wonderful treat that kept me going despite my many recent writer's blocks.
> 
> And if you enjoyed this fic, please consider checking out my other current WIP, Parallel Lines, which features plenty more Garcy moments that I can focus on more now that this story is over. ;)


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